


The Immovable and the Unstoppable

by TerryAxel



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Everyone is OoC have mercy, F/M, Google translate don't kill me, M/M, Peer pressure is a helluva drug, blowjob sorry, smut i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24804583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerryAxel/pseuds/TerryAxel
Summary: You were supposed to have a fun night out with a long time friend of yours at some backwater bar. You were supposed to cause a little trouble and head home, safe and sound. But shit happens. Like your friend cancelling on you at the last second. Before you could cut your losses, a stranger crossed your path. Just sitting with the man named Strade made you rethink your plans for the night.Maybe reevaluating your life choices should have been done BEFORE you met him.
Relationships: Protagonist/Strade (Boyfriend to Death), Ren (Boyfriend to Death)/Reader, Ren (Boyfriend to Death)/You, Ren/Strade (Boyfriend to Death), Ren/Strade (Boyfriend to Death)/Reader, Strade (BTD/TNR)/Reader, Strade (BTD/TNR)/You
Comments: 13
Kudos: 69





	1. 0.00039%

"Oh, you gotta be shitting me."

_sorry cant make it_

No amount of squinting at the bright screen changed the text bubble glaring you down. Disbelief flooded your system. An ache from your straining eyes drew a slight groan. With a brief click of the power button, you set your phone down on the table, took deep breath, and leaned back. Patience. Tranquility. Namaste or whatever the fuck it was that Jack chanted during his lengthy meditation sessions.

The warm air of the bar made it difficult.

Exhaling sharply, your nostrils flared as you lurched forward and snatched your phone of the table. Your fingers rapidly tapped the screen at the same time clicking footsteps approached you.

_W H Y ?_

"Welcome to the Braying Mule." A woman with blonde hair and brown eyes nodded at you. A pen twirled in her grip as she asked, "What can I get for you?"

You slapped your phone down, scooped up the menu, and read it as swiftly as you could. "Uhh…" Ignoring the heat of embarrassment crawling up the back of your neck, you gawked at the grease stained, wrinkled pages and pointed at the items that looked most appealing. "Can I get umm…a Cl-ASS-ic Beer and some nachos? Thank you."

"Sure thing!"

From the corner of your eye, you saw the screen of your phone flash. Thankfully, the waiter was too busy scribbling down your order to see you sneaking a peek. She plucked the battle-weary menu off the table and tucked it under her armpit. 

_raf needs help with his new costume_

She shot you a sweet smile, so you returned the expression until she turned on her heel and headed into the kitchen. Regret was quickly setting in. Why you and your friend thought it was a remotely funny idea to challenge yourselves to visit and drink one alcoholic beverage from each offering establishment in the city, you couldn't figure out at the moment.

Okay, you knew exactly why. It was too much fun acting like beverage connoisseurs and rating the drinks on a scale of never again to meet me at THE spot. Some of your favorite memories were of your challenge, and you were always eager to make more. Over the span of two years, Saturday nights with Jack became the highlight of your week.

_Dude we planned this a week ago!_

Jack pointed out that the two of you hadn't visited the Braying Mule yet. Something about the joint didn't sit right with you, didn't sit right with your spirit. So one careful deep dive into Google revealed a string of disappearances involving the bar in question, and common sense instilled a drive to avoid the seedy bar. You protested. Heavily. You refused to budge, going as far as to explain exactly why you were so keen on not going within 100 yards of the building. For a while, your friend dropped it and tiptoed around the subject.

_raincheck_

_i promise to make it up_

But, in a moment of drunken weakness, you reluctantly agreed to visit the rundown bar. It only took extreme bribing for Jack to get you to change your mind. An extra large pizza from the local pizzeria washed down with some cold Modelos and fudge brownies for dessert plus several hours of reassurances Jack would have your back was what it took.

_You suck donkey dicks._

_Venmo me 20._

So here you were, in the flesh and all alone. Much to your relief, the bar wasn't suspiciously empty. In fact, most of the seats were filled and a general sense of safety kept you grounded despite those news articles and blogs blaring in the back of your mind. Maybe it was the notification popping into view confirming Jack followed through on your demand for cash. 

_Thanks luv!_

Running into a serial killer happened to everyone at least once in their life. Or that was the statistic you read, somewhere. And rumor has it that a serial killer is the cause of the disappearances. The lack of proof didn't deter you nor did it make you dismiss it.

You would have no trouble handling yourself. Patting the taser, pocket knife, and can of pepper gel in your multiple pockets brought a sense of security. Plus, a self defense class here and there and you were more than capable of dispatching an attacker.

One last notification illuminated your phone's screen. A smile tugged at your lips.

_np_

_wont be on my phone for a few hours_

An unexpected scent wafted into you, making you roll your lips and hold your breath. Musty, it was musty and stale and coppery. Every second you spent sitting in the foul odor brought you closer to audibly retching. Nose scrunched, you glanced behind you in a vain attempt to locate the culprit of the rancid stench permeating the air.

There were no signs of movement from the other patrons. Just lighthearted conversations or concentrated silence as they watched a hockey game.

When you saw no obvious target, you raised a hand and frantically waved the smell away from your face. Sudden clouds of miasma threatening to sap the air from your lungs? Perhaps it was just your overactive imagination trying to fill in the void of boredom left in Jack's absence. 

THUD

"Hey there!"

Whipping around at lightspeed, your widened eyes landed on a tanned man in a green button up shirt and khakis. His hair, brown and lifeless, stuck to his neck in a scraggly display. One unruly lock of his slick hair sat smack dab between his golden eyes. Although his thick brows were mostly covered by his hair, you could see the arch in them as he smiled at you.

For the most part, he seemed charming enough. Then, the stench hit you like a speeding truck crashed into a wall. You found the source of your original distress. A frown sunk your lips.

'What if he can't help it?' Guilt quickly set in. All this man did was approach you kindly and you were ready to roast him. But for him to appear out of thin air without making a sound? And you didn't recognize him as one of the patrons from earlier.

Oblivious to your inner turmoil, the cheery man happily said, "You look down, this one's on me." He pushed the glass toward you, leaving a trail of condensation on the lacquered wood. 

Rule one of going out to drink, never accept a beverage you didn't see poured. Especially from a stranger who gave you odd vibes in a pub with a questionable reputation. Shady, suspicious, untrustworthy. Whether he meant any bad by it, you didn't care.

One red flag was one too many. "I'll pass." You responded coolly with a slight smile as you pushed the glass back in his direction.

Surprise in his open mouth and widened eyes, the man quickly snapped out of his state and pushed the drink back at you. "I insist!" He practically sang as the mug of beer stopped inches from your chest.

Quirking a brow, you shook your head and stuck out your index finger to prod the drink back. The glass stopped when it met the man's chest. Your smile fell as you said, "No thanks."

Something flickered in his eyes.

Something you didn't like.

His once beaming smile dimmed to a mere straight lipped frown. His voice lowered several octaves. "Why not?" The question sent shivers along your spine and goosebumps crawling over your skin.

"Because I said no." Came your lower, rumbling growl of a response. You couldn't let yourself be pressured into accepting a drink from a stranger. The man remained unflinching under your gaze.

The two of you stared at each other, silently sizing one another up. Jaw clenched and fist tightened, you stared at the man and studied his face closely. A scar marred his lip. Stubble dusted jawline. His warm, inviting aura and smile vanished without a trace. Brows furrowed, the man's eyes narrowed as he returned in the intense scrutinizing gaze. Were his true colors showing? Possibly, but you needed to talk more in order to figure him out.

"Alright."

Almost as if he could read your mind, the man plastered a charming grin on his face and shuffled closer to the stool. Spotting his movement, you scooted to the edge of your seat and hooked your foot around one of the iron bars it was made with. One yank was all it took.

"So, what's your--" He choked on his words when he stumbled and nearly fell. His reflexes kicked in and he saved himself from falling flat on his ass by planting his forearm on the table.

Biting the inside of your cheek barely allowed you to swallow the bellowing laughter that desperately craved escape. Also slipping your hand over your mouth covertly assisted in keeping your face straight as the man stood up. 

"Someone's sitting there." Your words were rough, albeit muffled.

A little too quickly, the man replied, "No there's not." As if recognizing his mistake, he raked a hand through his greasy hair and glanced around the bar. He shot you a smile as he rubbed the back of his neck and laughed, "Not right now anyway."

Setting your chin on your palm, you stared at the man, watched him quietly. You expected him to squirm under your piercing gaze, but he did not. After a few more moments of silence, you shrugged and lied through your teeth, "There will be."

Intrigue swirled in the golden hues trained on you. The man tilted his head, brought a finger to his chin, and asked, "Do you mind if I keep you company until then?"

Pushing him over the limit wasn't in your best interest. You wanted to flee the bar alive and well, so you needed to rein yourself in. The last thing you needed was this strange man to get upset with you.

'Think about this. Random smelly dude with a weird accent tries to strong arm you into drinking a beer you didn't see poured.' You chewed your lip in contemplation. 'He hasn't lashed out at me yet, so he's either very nice or biding his time until he can retaliate. Gotta play my cards right and get home safe.'

Peering up at him through your lashes to add a dash of vulnerability, you shook your head gently and murmured, "I don't mind, I guess."

Excitement gleamed in his eyes. This time, the man planted a firm hand on the stool before sliding onto it. A hint of a smirk ghosted his lips when his eyes locked with yours momentarily. His fingers diligently spun the glass of beer trapped in no mans land.

"So, what's your name?" The man asked without blinking, his warm grin doing no favors. 

You forced a polite smile and lifted your hand, offering it as you said, "(Name)."

With a nod, he took your hand and gave it a firm squeeze. It nearly engulfed yours. His palm was rough, calloused, and a bit clammy. Several shakes later, the man released your hand, but his touch lingered when one of his fingers brushed along one of yours as he pulled his hand back.

"Ha, so formal!" The mysterious stranger who had been bugging you for the past several minutes finally revealed his name. "Strade."

"Seriously?" It tumbled from your mouth before you could stop it. 

Heat flared up your neck. The sensation of your face growing hot irked you, thus only making you blush harder and the warmth tinging your cheeks worse. Your hands covered your face as you leaned forward, resting your weight on your elbows. Fingers threading your hair and tugging slightly, you groaned quietly. Maybe it was you who needed to take a class or two on socializing.

"I'm sorry." You mumbled through your hands. Thought you preferred to not look Strade in the eye after insulting his name to his face, you forced your hands onto your lap and struggled to meet his gaze. "That was rude and uncalled for. I've been such an ass all night. I'm really sorry."

He didn't look upset. Rather, a hungry smile settled on his lips as he stared at you, eyes half lidded and voice low, "Don't worry about it."

Unexpected rescue came in the form of a blessing that was the waitress from earlier. She set a large glass of dull yellow beer in front of you. "One Cl-ASS-ic and a plate of nachos." A plate of tragically delicious looking nachos followed suit, but the crowded table made it difficult for the woman to unload safely. Still, she pulled it off and shot you a needed smile as she hummed, "Enjoy."

"Thank you." You managed to croak out, earning a nod of appreciation from the woman.

Strade exercised mercy when he cleared his throat and said, "I've never seen you around here before." He took a tiny sip of his beer before he tilted his head and asked, "What brings you to the Braying Mule?"

"Me and my friend have this…" You paused to find the right word, continuing, "…mission where we visit every restaurant or bar and try at least one alcoholic beverage on the menu."

His eyes widened as he leaned forward. Curiosity laced his tone. "How'd that happen?"

A chuckle erupted from you as the memory surged forth. "When I turned twenty one, we got legally hammered for the first time at some joint called the Daiquiri Factory. One thing led to another, we got kicked out, banned, cried a lot, and then we made the pact." The crooked smirk and raised brow he sported prompted a deeper explanation, but you shook your head and took a sip of your beer. "What happened at the Daiquiri Factory stays at the Daiquiri Factory." You mumbled against the rim of the glass, which surprisingly drew a laugh from Strade. 

"Sounds like quite the story." He said through his own chuckles. The man's fixed his posture. His fingers drummed against the stool as he hummed, "I'm guessing this seat is reserved for your friend?"

You nodded. "Yeah, but he's--" Mouth snapping shut, you looked down at your nachos and started eating. Almost, you almost exposed yourself. He was a little too good at making you talk all of a sudden. Remembering yourself, you washed down the nachos with a healthy gulp of beer and curtly responded, "He's running late."

"That's a shame." Strade sighed, a sympathetic frown decorating his handsome features. "Has it been a while since you've seen your friend?"

Red flag number two. 'Oh yeah, he's a big time creep.'

Unable to fight the scowl that swiftly adorned your features, you nervously fidgeted and brushed your hair behind your ear. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, his pupils dilated and he leaned closer, picking up on your discomfort.

"Well, kinda, but not really." The poor explanation didn't help your case. But regardless, you pushed forward and adopted a smirk as you darkly joked, "It doesn't matter, I'm going to chew him out for it later."

Exhaling, you raised the mug to your mouth and tilted your head back. The liquid drained down your esophagus, forcing a grimace on your features as the taste rushed over your taste buds. Cheap was certainly the right label to slap on the advertising. Glaring at the cold and now empty glass, you shook your head and set it down. Mission accomplished, anyway.

"Wow."

Strade was staring. Oh, he was staring intensely. Beads of sweat glimmered on his forehead. A generous scarlet hue dusted his cheeks and neck. His fixated stare brought you to unprecedented levels of uncomfortable.

You needed to do something because letting this man eye you like a starving wolf ready to pounce was not it. The rushing blood sounded like crashing waves in your ears as you looked down.

An epiphany hit you. Time to put on the theatrics.

Back straightening, you forced your eyes open wide as you gasped, "Oh!"

Strade perked up as well. "Hm?"

You pointed at your phone, taking care to ensure the screen was tilted away from his eyesight. Shooting Strade an apologetic smile, you shrugged and relented, "Sorry, I gotta take this real quick."

Flash off, sound off, camera facing outward, nerves collected…

You held the phone up to your ear and sighed. "Hey dude, where ARE you?" To help pace your faux argument, you imagined Jack replying as irritatingly as possible. The exasperated huff came naturally, "You said that ten minutes ago. I know you're lying." Rolling your eyes and shaking your head earned an amused chuckle from Strade. You drummed your fingers against the tabletop. Glancing at the unexpecting bar goers, another idea came to mind. Raising your voice so it cracked noticeably, you pounded your fist against the table and shouted, "The least you could do is come pick me up then, dickhead!" Sure enough, everyone within the establishment craned their necks to observe your outburst. Forcing an embarrassing memory to the forefront of your mind, you wilted under their gazes and looked to Strade. In your peripheral, you fixed your screen and readjusted it to catch him in frame with his eyes on you. "Sorry." You whispered, making a pathetic face which garnered a sympathetic smile from the man. Turning away, you bit your lip to stifle the triumphant smile which threatened to break your façade. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry for yelling. See you in thirty." And with a little, shaky sigh, you pulled your phone down to your lap and ended the video.

You knew you got a clear shot, but you scrubbed through the video until you saw with your own two eyes that Strade was on camera. He was.

_If I go missing…_

_His name is Strade._

_180-200 maybe 5'6? 5'7?_

The video was short enough to send quickly to Jack and a couple of other friends. There was your insurance policy. You merely hoped the effort would be something to laugh about in a couple of weeks, not something that would actually have critical use.

Your fingers danced in a blur, tapped away at the screen, and you only paused to ensure you selected the correct address as you ordered an Uber. Watching the swirling circle made your heart pound with anticipation until a smiling, older woman's picture popped up. Both disappointment and relief afflicted your sigh. Twenty minutes stood between you and leaving the Braying Mule.

'This would be my luck.' You tilted your head back and glared at the ceiling. 'C'mon, man!'

Now all you had to do was maintain a conversation with a creep for twenty minutes.

You snapped out of your despairing thoughts when Strade took another miniscule swig of his beer. Upon realizing he had your undivided attention, the golden eyed man wore a toothy grin. "Guess you're stuck with me for half an hour?" He chuckled.

Heaving a resigned sigh, you scanned the delectable nachos and picked up a chip. "Guess so." You shoved the chip in your mouth and pointed at the black ink poking out from the bottom of his left sleeve. You nodded, "So what's the story behind the tattoo?"

With the way his infectious grin slackened and every muscle in Strade's body tensed, one would think it wise to avoid the subject.

So you coughed. "Sorry, too personal?"

Before you had the chance to blink, Strade raised a hand to silence you. "No, it's fine." His smile revived, albeit not as big or bright. His hand released the mug and pulled the fabric up. Two thick black lines above an upward pointing arrow. "It was my rank in the military. Our platoon decided to get matching tattoos." He traced the lines slowly. You said nothing as he closed his eyes and quietly reminisced. Eventually, he sighed and the silence felt too heavy to stay.

"A veteran, huh?" Your hand loosely gripped your mug, but you felt as though lifting an empty cup was slightly disrespectful. Motioning for him to take a chip, he raised an inquistive brow but listened anyway. Bowing your head slightly, you grabbed one, held the chip out, and said, "Thank you for your service."

Smiling, you tapped your chip against his and dropped it in your mouth. A satisfied hum rumbled in your chest the second the cheese touched your tongue. Slowly, he nibbled at the chip. 

Strade's eyes were half lidded again. "You have a pretty good eye." He muttered under his breath.

"Sure do."

Two more chips down the hatch, and you were getting parched. Part of you wished you hadn't chugged your terrible tasting beer so you could quell your thirst. And your eyes involuntarily drifting to the lonely beer sitting prettily didn't help your case, but you weren't about to relent.

The stingy establishment didn't have napkins anywhere, so licking your fingers clean of the grease would have to do. Just as you were about to lick, you recalled you shook hands with Strade and never washed your hands. Escaping your suffering seemed impossible.

Distracting yourself from your thirst would have to do. You waved your hand lazily. "Are we at the stage where I can ask about your age or?"

Strade smirked. "Thirty four."

You turned your head just in time to cough violently. Through your wheezes, you managed to stop your hacking and chimed, "Thirty four?!" Eyes wide, you leaned over the table in genuine surprise and looked his face over again. Amusement leaked from Strade's expression as you narrowed your eyes and whispered, "No way."

The man chuckled, took a solid gulp of his beer, and wiped the remnants from his upper lip. He seemed to preen at your complete, undivided attention. "How old did you think I was?" He asked, taking a few chips and eating them without permission. 

"Mmmm…" You gave a firm nod as you - with a straight face - answered, "Forty two." The smug aura vanished immediately, causing you to snicker at your own mischief. Allowing the insult to marinate for a few seconds, you recomposed yourself and said, "I'm joking. Don't let it get to your head, but I thought you were like twenty six."

Strade let out a hearty laugh. Pride still gleamed in his golden hues. Was charming the charmer working? Judging by Strade's grin, it was. "And you?" He asked.

Smirking, you shrugged and answered, "Twenty three." Upon seeing his brows raise with intrigue, you fought the urge to gag and sported a teasing tone as you sang, "Too young for you, crib robber."

To help cover up the insult, you shot him an impish wink which earned a toothy grin from the man.

"Your accent…" You tapped your finger against the tabletop, snapping your fingers loudly as you pointed and chirped, "German?"

He nodded. "Ja."

"Cool cool." Again, the urge to cause some mischief stung you. You glanced the floor and quietly weighed your options. Even if he was a creepy serial killer, it had to be said. Biting back a playful tone, you tried to keep a straight face as you grinned. "My friend taught me a little German!"

Interest sparked in his features. "Is that so?" He rested his chin on the back of his hand. "I would like to hear it."

"Guten Tag. Danke. Auf Wiedersehen." You pursed your lips to study Strade's reaction. He gave a nod of approval, so you got a little braver. "Wo ist die Toilette?" The man wore a crooked smile. You couldn't help the smirk that spawned on your lips as you said, "Fick dich." Utter disbelief twisted Strade's face, and the end product forced a fit of giggles out of you. "What?" Any trace of innocence was out the window when you laughed, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

He slowly raked his fingers over his stubble. The scratching noise made you wince. "Your pronunciation is spotty, but I can't complain." Strade wiggled his hand in a so-so motion, evoking a squint from you.

"Oh really?" You faked offense, placing a hand on your chest. "Well, give me the tutorial since you're the master of speaking German."

Strade's eyes shrunk down to slits as he stared you down. You recognized the look of appraisal when you saw it, but your chance to call him on it was lost when the man cleared his throat and smiled. "Repeat after me: Dies ist ein Test."

You weren't one to back down from a challenge, so you were quick to mimic. "Dies ist ein Test." After a beat passed, you tilted your head and asked, "What does that mean?"

"This is a test." He laughed upon seeing your eye twitch. "This one won't be as easy." He took a long sip of his beer, but didn't set it down. "Ready?" When you nodded, he smiled and uttered, "Du bist ein hübsches Mädchen." He resumed drinking the beverage at such a sluggish pace, you swore he was attempting to savor the flavor.

Grinning, you crossed your arms over your chest and spouted, "Du bist ein hübsches Mädchen." 

The expectant leer you focused on Strade wavered as the man swallowed a mouthful of beer. A thwack echoed when the bottom of the mug connected with the tabletop. He wiped the residue off of his top lip, leaned forward, and toted an alluring grin as he purred, "You're a pretty girl."

Admittedly, you were surprised by the sudden, open flirtation. His confidence and following wink didn't help the embarrassment clawing its way to your face. "Flattery will get you nowhere." You muttered, fighting the heat threatening to climb your neck and expose you.

Your efforts were for naught. Smirking at your flustered scowl, he shot back without hesitation, "If you say so." Strade rested his cheek on his fist, crooning, "Du wirst die Beste sein, die ich breche."

Determination spurred you to keep up. "Du wirst die Beste sein, die ich breche." So far, you were keeping up quite well with his phrases.

"You are the funniest person in this bar." You shook your head and rolled your eyes. Strade merely snorted before he narrowed his eyes and said, "Wenn du diesen Ort verlässt, werde ich dich mitnehmen."

Gulping, you furrowed your brows as you focused on hitting the right syllables. Strade encouraged you with patient nods as you said, "Wenn du diesen Ort verlässt, werde ich dich mitnehmen."

The second you finished speaking, Strade quickly piped up, "Zuerst werde ich dich zum Zuhören bringen"

It caught you off guard, but the drive to do well overrode the rest of your senses. Jaw set tightly, you scooted closer and hunched your back as you stated, "Zuerst werde ich dich zum Zuhören bringen."

His speech gained speed, and he no longer waited for you to catch each syllable. "Ich bin mir ziemlich sicher, dass du es wirst, aber ich hoffe du kämpfst." He thrummed, the smallest of smiles on his face.

"Ich bin…mir ziemlich…sicher, dass du…" You paused. Conviction faltering, you trailed off between every few words you remembered, "…es wirst, aber ich…hoffe du kämpfst."

Amused, Strade's smile stretched into a grin. "Kämpfe gegen alles, was du willst. Ich liebe es, wenn sie kämpfen.

"Kämpfe gegen alles…" Your face scrunched as you struggled to repeat what Strade said. "…was du willst. Ich liebe es…" Memory stuttering, your mouth hung open and your lashes fluttered. Gulping audibly, the last flicker of your confidence snuffed out. "…zu kämpfen?" The foreign language clumsily tripped off your tongue.

Strade froze for a moment.

Eyes wide, his pupils dilated and he raised his head off of his fist. His head tilted at a painfully slow pace, his focus on your multiplying to an uncomfortable degree.

It wasn't long until his skin started to glow red and small beads of sweat appeared. His hair grew more damp as it soaked up the sweat.

You mustered one word. "What?"

"It's nothing." His voice cracked, the blush on his face only growing brighter and more prominent.

Sometimes your mouth jumped the gun before your brain could reel together a viable course of action. "You're lying, but okay." Was your irked response to his terribly obvious lie, but the man didn't react. No, he seemed to zone out as his locked gaze continued to intensify.

Maybe bolting down the street would save you from the increasingly worrisome situation.

You checked your phone. The Uber was seven minutes away, so there went that plan. You pulled up Jack's texts and hastily sent more info on the Strade.

_He says he's 34._

_He's also German._

"Let's continue." Strade's unwavering gaze bore into you, made you shiver and applied a pressure you knew you shouldn't bother resisting. Play along for now. Because you knew what rejection did to people.

With a reluctant nod, you took a deep breath and prepared yourself for the barrage of German phrases the man would spew.

"Ich werde in deinem Keller gefesselt sein." He drawled, his teeth digging into his bottom lip so roughly you thought he'd draw blood. Alas, you were spared the ordeal of seeing a man so wound up, he made himself bleed.

Thankfully, this one was short, sweet, and to the point. You easily copied him. "Ich werde in deinem Keller gefesselt sein."

"Ich werde hilflos sein. Ich werde schreien. Ich werde weinen. Du wirst mich überall zerschneiden." Heaving, the sweat beads rolled down his face. His tanned skin was overtaken by a scarlet hue that burned brightly. He licked lips as he leaned over the table and watched you with exceptional anticipation.

You didn't miss one of his hands disappearing under the table and the slight rustling of clothing when your lips started to move, "Ich werde…hilflos sein. Ich werde…schreien. Ich werde…weinen. Du wirst mich überall zerschneiden."

"Bitte schneide mich auf, Strade. Lass mich bluten und reibe alles über mich. Ich möchte, dass du mich sauber leckst." Panting, the man stretched his neck, turned his head, and exposed his ear to hear better, but never broke eye contact with you.

Disgust, anger, and a desire to go home swiftly boiled your blood. Through clenched teeth, you hissed, "Bitte schneide mich auf, Strade. Lass mich bluten und reibe alles über mich. Ich möchte, dass du mich sauber leckst."

His entire body shuddered. A hearty, deep, rumbling moan mixed with a growl escaped him. You saw his eyes roll back into his head for a second before he forced himself to focus. Drool leaked from the corner of his lips.

"Dann werden wir--"

Enough was enough.

Playing chicken with the sweaty, winded creepy guy who's eyes were glazed over with lust was a game you were no longer interested in participating in. "Oh shit." You held up your phone and waggled it like before. "My ride's here! Gotta blast." Pulling a twenty from your pocket, you tossed the curled up currency on the table and babbled, "Can you give her this? Thanks. Nice talkin' to ya. Later!"

Before Strade could get a word out, you were already out the door and walking at a brisk pace. Seeing no one on the streets, you swallowed your fear and sped up to a jog. Turning back to look felt like a death sentence. So you didn't.

The frigid, crisp air splashed over your warm face, effectively cooling you in seconds. Again, you increased your pace and ran around the corner of the block.

_Running to my Uber lol._

_Can't wait to get home._

Puffs of smoke leaked from your mouth as you held up your phone like a compass. Navigating the streets for your Uber after running from the bar and a creepy guy getting off on your shitty German speaking skills? Not how you envisioned your night going.

A sardonic laugh escaped you.

Halfway down the next block, you kept your eyes out for the red Prius that Mrs. Roland drove. Two minutes, a few blocks away. Your arms pumped as you broke into a full out sprint.

Subtlety be damned, you were going to reach that car in a minute flat.

Your hand tightly clutched your phone as you slid it into your pants back pocket. Far off in the distance, you barely made out a red object in the road. Your breath hitched. Pushing yourself to go faster, you dashed along the sidewalk like you were in a damn track meet.

'So close. So close. So close. So close. So--'

Then a blur crossed in front of you from a narrow alley.

You collided against the blur. It felt like a brick wall, knocked the wind out of you as you flew back and landed unceremoniously on the ground. A choked gasp for air was the only sound you managed as pain erupted on the back of your head. Stars glimmering in the dark sky was all you saw as something clasped onto your wrist, dragging you on your ass into the shadows.

Dull aching swiftly evolved into a burning pain when you were yanked to your feet. Before you were able to regain your senses, a powerful weight pushed on your chest and forced you to stumble backward. Your back smacked against the wall of a building, yet again stealing the breath from your lungs. This time, you sputtered, "F-Fuck!"

Your hands clawed at the hands gripping your shoulders. Nails dug into the flesh of your attacker, but judging from their unrelenting hold, it didn’t help that much. Yes, the world spun and you struggled to catch your breath.

However, once your vision adapted to the blinding darkness, your heart skipped several beats upon seeing the face of your attacker. His golden eyes burned into yours as your blood chilled.

Strade.

"Caught you." He hissed through clenched teeth, a devious grin spreading his lips thin.

Refusing to show fear, you steeled yourself and opened your mouth to retort. But screaming was a better option than getting smart with someone who cornered you in a dark alley.

One of Strade's hands flew over and clamped down on your mouth, effectively stifling any noise you could possibly make. Suppressing a gag when his meaty, grimy palm pressed against your lips was difficult, but you pulled through and kept your composure.

"Are you going to come quietly?" He asked, face hovering an inch from yours. Lashes fluttering, your eyes drifted down to his hand and an idea struck you. As if sensing your oncoming defiance, Strade closed the distance between your faces until his nose touched yours and his voice adopted a cold, threatening tone. "Or are you going to make me wo--"

You didn't give him the chance to finish. Maws snapping shut on his supple, salty flesh drew a satisfying yelp from the man. He withdrew, taking a few steps back to put ample space between the two of you. Immediately, you spat in hopes of cleansing your mouth of Strade's fluids.

Throbbing aches in your shoulders prompted a short, pained exhale. You locked your sights on Strade and glared. He missed the vicious expression on your face. Too preoccupied by admiring the bleeding wound you gifted him, his golden irises reduced to thin, yellow rims as his pupils enlarged. With the man distracted, you took the opportunity to slip your hand into your pocket and retrieve something you hoped would even the playing field.

Strade's face swiftly flushed red. "Wow!" He finally met your hateful gaze. His eyelids drooped halfway as he purred, "…lebhaft!"

Strade lowered his head, brought his hand to his mouth, and made a show of licking the blood off his hand all while maintaining eye contact with you. Watching him swirl his tongue and suckle at the wound sent wave after wave of disgust through you.

When his tongue flicked over the slobber you left dripping down the back of his hand after mauling him and swallowed audibly, the blood in your veins set ablaze. Adrenaline pumped into your body. Eye twitching, you barely had the chance to open your stance before the same hand Strade spent the past eternity deep throating came flying at your cheek.

Falling away saved you from the sudden strike connecting. Unfortunately, in your rush to avoid being hit, you ducked and stumbled deeper into the alley. Strade chuckled as he stepped back and retreated to the center of the narrow space. If you tried to run, he'd easily block and grab you.

"Schnell." You heard him mutter under his breath. He slowly turned to face you. His steps toward you were deliberate, heavy.

Voice lower than ever, you bared your teeth as you growled, "I knew you were fucking psychotic." His lack of a reaction made it seem as though he either didn't hear you, or didn't care.

You kept your hand hidden as you settled into a proper fighting stance. Strade's march came to a halt momentarily. His canine tooth dug into his bottom lip as a fit of giggles caused his frame to shake. When his amusement died down, he surged forward in a burst of speed that made you jump back.

The fist soaring toward your face grazed your cheek as you tilted your head to avoid being clocked. Luck seemed to be on your side tonight. A high kick aimed at your head - an instant knockout if it connected - was thwarted by a stumble that lowered you to your knees. Whatever you slipped on gave you the opening you needed to return the blows Strade dealt. Your foot shot out and hooked behind his heel. Mustering as much strength as possible, you swept his foot out from under him and sent the burly man tumbling to the ground. His back landed with a heavy thud echoing through the alley.

Wasting no time, you huffed and darted toward him. Though his eyes were opened a crack, Strade easily shifted his position and thrusted his leg out. Your momentum prevented you from dodging, and the hefty heel of his boot dug into your stomach. Air expelled from your lungs and your body tensed as pain exploded in your abdomen.

To make matters worse, the force he struck you with propelled you backward into a cluster of trash cans. Your strangled cry was muffled by the thunderous clattering of the fallen, aluminum bins. They dug into your back as you feebly squirmed from your heap.

Heavy weight collapsed on top of you, particularly digging into your ribs and stopping you from breathing correctly. Your lungs burned. Running at a dead sprint down the block, getting clotheslined, and brawling with some asshole dead set on murdering you didn't leave you in peak condition.

The prick with his knee into your gut wore a smug grin, no doubt believing the struggle to be over.

"That's enough of that." He laughed as he pushed his weight into your smaller frame to drain whatever fight you had left in you. But your will was nowhere near as fragile as he thought.

You tried breathing, but the pathetic trickle of air you inhaled was hardly enough. The attempt at refilling your lungs made Strade giggle. A scowl overtook your lips. He ignored your sour expression and reached for one of your arms buried under the cans. His wounded hand retrieved a cluster of zip ties. You heart skipped a beat. As his uninjured hand - his left hand - clamped down on your wrist, your own hand tightened its grip on the object nestled safely in your palm. He pulled it up at a teasingly slow speed, so you sped the process up. Flinging your hand upward at his neck, you pressed the button of your device and electricity crackled out. Its popping and humming and buzzing filled the quiet night.

Both your arm and Strade's trembled from the strenuous efforts the two of you put forth. You, trying to close the preciously small distance of feeding his neck a plentiful helping of electricity, and Strade, squeezing your wrist and pushing your hand away to save himself from being tased. As he continued to fight your dangerous weapon, his eyes widened with excitement.

"A taser?" He shook his head and his tone was deceptively lighthearted as he chastised you, "Tsk tsk. Wie ungezogen!" He set down the zip ties, some chuckles escaping him despite his perilous situation.

Though his nonchalant behavior irked you to your bones, you knew it was for the best he remained arrogant and continued to underestimate you. Strade's overinflated confidence would leave him open surprise attacks.

Just as you anticipated and capitalized on.

Your free hand emerged from under you. The loud clang of your hand smacking against the trash can covered the fact you stopped pressing the button that summoned electricity. Even if your hand was much smaller than his, you pressed your palm against his and carefully wove your fingers between the spaces of his fingers. A normally intimate gesture shared by lovers or friends.

Confusion painted his features as he glanced between your conjoined hands and your face. A smirk curled on your lips. With a squeeze, you agitated the bite wound, causing blood to leak and dribble down into the crevices of your linked hands.

His ever familiar sweat and blushing cheeks glowed. Maybe it was the extended struggle that had him worked up this time, or maybe the intimate gesture was to blame. You didn't care to find out.

Instead, you twirled the taser in your palm and hovered the prongs right above his hairy forearm. One click and the sweet sound of crackling electricity returned.

And this time, it worked.

"SCHEISSE!" He screamed as he jerked backward, removing his weight and releasing his hold on your wrist. You quickly yanked him toward you, so the two of you switched positions with Strade pinned against the mound of trash cans and you pinning him down. Reviving the taser, you jabbed it into his neck and held it there.

Strade's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His handsome features twisted with agony as he wriggled like a worm on a hook. They shared the same fate. There would be no escape. You held the taser into his neck until his eyes closed and he stopped moving.

Dead or alive?

Quite frankly, you didn't give a fuck.

Ribs pulsating with sharp pain, one of your hands cupped the area gingerly as you shakily rose up. You didn't have a second to lose. You wouldn't waste your precious breath. What's done is done, and you spun on your heel. Albeit staggering and body aching, you quickly limped toward the alley's bright exit which filled you with hope.

'That Prius better be around here. Some-fucking-where.' You grimaced and coughed as you teetered from side to side. Someone had to be there. They had to.

You opened your mouth to scream.

But the tail end of a soft clattering made your heart leap out of your throat. Something clasped your ankle. Nails dug into your skin, breaking it as your balance was ripped from underneath you with a powerful tug. Instincts kicked in.

You opened your hands to help soften your clumsy fall. In the process, you dropped the taser. "Ack!" Landing on your side sent a shockwave of pain crashing through you.

Not a moment sooner, the concrete you laid upon scratched and pulled at your form. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw Strade grinning madly as he squeezed your ankle and darkly chuckled. 

God forbid you catch a fucking break.

He continued to pull you closer to him, sweat rolling down his face. You snapped out of your horror. Anger flared in your chest. The pain in your side numbed. Since he left your other leg free, you were more than eager to make him regret it.

Flipping onto your back, you jaw set tightly as you planted your elbows into the ground. Sacrificing the skin on your elbows was a low cost to pay to stop Strade from moving your so easily.

With your fists clenched, you pulled your knee to your chin, launched your heel at his face, and hissed when you missed by an inch. "Fuck! You!" You hissed between kicks, causing Strade to laugh. His head smoothly moved from left to right, your foot missing by wide margins. His expert evasion of your blows pissed you off. An infuriated scream ripped through your throat.

Only when you turned your foot to be parallel to the ground did you land one clean hit.

The sickening crack, a gurgled stream of curses, and Strade's instant release of your ankle fueled you to scramble backward. Crab walking as fast as possible, you mirrored the man as he rose up.

His hands covered his face. Blood mixed with his sweat as it flowed and trickled down his chin. The crimson stream ran down his throat, staining his green button up a rust brown. Before the pride of injuring your attacker set in, another loud crack echoed in the alley.

Strade's head slowly craned upward. His greasy, brown locks parted like curtains, revealing his blood soaked lips and chin. His frown changed, splitting his face into a monstrous, feral grin. His teeth were not spared of a bloody fate either. Fresh crimson dribbled down his teeth. The liquid was smeared by Strade's tongue licking them slowly. Strade attended to his bloody lips, giving them the same prolonged tongue bath before he rolled his lips together. His golden hues glimmered dangerously.

You saw his left hand sneakily drift behind his back. Knowing it couldn't be anything good, you reached for one of your pockets. The gleam of silver flashed before Strade rushed toward you. Right hand flipping out your trusted switch blade, you punched upward just in time to catch his. The clashing blades generated sparks on contact. His stab would have buried his blade deep in your neck had you not reacted fast enough.

He drew his arm back, loaded up, and thrusted the knife again. You were ready, easily blocking the slash. The process repeated several times. Overhead slash, block, side slash, block, overhead slash, block. Being up close and personal, you swore you saw his honeyed irises wobbling from pure excitement.

His towering strength and stature would wear you down if you didn't try something fast. 'Maybe…' You squinted as you looked at his curved blade.

You had to take a chance.

Or rather, take a hit if you wanted to pull it off.

After you blocked his strongest blow yet, you took a deep breath and held it. His knife came down in its usual arc, but instead of parrying it, you allowed it to cut your arm. Luckily, it didn't hit dead center and merely grazed the edge instead. You heard Strade inhale sharply.

With his arm still low and extended, you stepped closer and jabbed your switchblade just over the back of his left wrist. As if you were wiping down a windshield, you arched your arm from navel level to head level, pushing his left arm out to your right. Strade's eyes widened as he stepped back, his right arm flailing to keep him from falling on his ass. Both of his arms out of commission, Strade had no choice but to watch as you stepped closer to his forcibly opened stance. Free of the threat of your hand being grabbed, your left hand shot out and effortlessly plucked the knife from his grasp.

Your aim wasn't to cut or maim, but to forcibly disarm him. And you ensured that when you flung the captured weapon far behind you. Give him an inch, and he'd take a mile, so you acted quickly. A grunt rumbled through your teeth as you charged forward. Using your weight and his waning balance, you managed to knock him on his back.

Strade's body cushioned your fall. The impact rattled your brain a little, but even through your slight disorientation, you heard a strange, choked groan escape the man under you. What was clear was that it wasn't pain induced.

Rather than investigate why, you skipped to the part where you straddled his torso and raised your blade to finish this bastard once and for all.

His golden ring and black dot made for an excellent target.

The blade whistled as it cut down through the air and closed in on his eye. Adrenaline shot through you. This was it.

Once the soft flesh of his eye was punctured, you'd drive the blood slicked blade deeper until you cut through his brain and touched the back of his skull. He'd go limp under you and you'd escape with your life. Seconds. Only a few seconds and it would all be over. 'Checkmate, Strade. You insufferable, perverted bitch.'

Reality wouldn't let you win so easily.

Strade was still alive. You could see the tip of your blade just centimeters from digging into Strade's eye. Strade was still breathing. You could feel his stomach expanding and deflating with each labored breath. Strade's eye was still in tact. You could see his pupil dilating as his focus flitted between the blade and you. Strade was not going to lose so easily. You could tell by the crushing grip of his hand latched to your wrist.

His other hand slid over yours, adding more agonizing pressure to your hand in hopes of making you drop the knife.

Undeterred by his last second save, you growled and slapped your hand over his. The hand sandwich quivered as his pushing and yours caused the knife to stay stuck in no man's land above Strade's eye. Even when you leaned all your weight into the struggle, it remained stationary.

The alley was filled with shaky breaths and strained grunts.

An ache burned in your arms. Soreness crept into your body. Unintentionally holding your breath as you attempted to drive the switchblade through Strade's face wore you down.

Your hips - which rose up when you initially put all your weight forward - lowered and rested against his. Once you caught a second wind, you'd succeed in killing him.

Through ragged panting, Strade smirked at your depleting energy and cooed, "You know how to handle a blade?" He peeked up at you around the blade and suavely declared, "Eine Frau ganz nach meinem Geschmack!"

Confused, you furrowed your brows. By no means were you going to fall into a false sense of security and ask what he said. But you'd come to regret it sooner rather than later. Especially when something poked at your ass, sending an uncomfortable shiver up your spine. Shifting to rid yourself of the sensation did nothing to change the circumstances. In fact, wiggling around only made it worse. You decided lifting your hips up was your sole option.

Strade choking out a moan and bucking his hips up to rub against yours is how you figured out what the deal was. A squeak of surprise and disgust slipped past your tongue.

His face was already drenched in sweat, but you felt his perspiration coating the skin of his forearms and torso. The deep scarlet dying his face and neck grew more prominent as he huffed, "Wenn du so weiter machst…"

If the imposing lust clouding his eyes taught you anything, then things were going to get out of hand, quickly. Strade would probably block any attack you aimed at his crotch. Something unexpected, something easily disguisable by readjusting your form. Memories of horseplay with your cousins gave you an idea.

Raising your knees up sent a scorching pain through your muscles. But you swiftly dropped your knees into his thighs, sparing him no mercy from the dead legs you were more than eager to give.

As your knees dug further and further into his thighs, Strade's grip on your hands loosened considerably. You tore your hands from his and raised them up over your head, both tightly clutching the small handle of the blade. Here it was, the moment you were waiting for.

Thrusting downward, the switch only made it past your eye level when your attack was disrupted.

Strade's hands wandered to your inner thighs. His fingers briefly drummed against them before he grabbed them and pulled them apart.

You lurched forward, arms waving as you squirmed to keep yourself upright. Your knees slid down the sides of his thighs, plopping your crotch against his. Losing your balance paused your final attack. Strade unleashed a satisfied gasp when your heat and pressure returned to its rightful place. One of his arms hastily wrapped around your waist, and sans hesitation, that hand slapped down and squeezed your ass. 

"WHOA!" Came your startled cry, back stiffening in an arc. You tried to stand, but your escape was thwarted when another hard squeeze passed.

The movement earned a guttural purr from the man beneath you. "Oh Mädchen." His other hand joined in on the groping. Clutching your lower half and forcing more friction, he dragged your core along his hardening length as he growled, "Schau dir an, was du getan hast."

Instinct made you perk up as your hands flew to his. In a forlorn bid to stop him from grinding against you, you tried prying his hands off your ass to no avail.

Stabbing his hands as they painfully massaged the handfuls he helped himself to might lead to you hurting yourself. There was one way out, maybe.

The heat beginning to stir and pulsate in your nether regions made you panic. Going for the face might work this time since his hands were currently preoccupied with fondling your ass. Ignoring the warmth spreading to your face, you locked eyes with Strade. He was more than happy to meet your gaze, golden eyes burning with insatiable hunger you refused to fall prey to.

Planting a hand firmly on his chest, you kept your hips low and made sure to roll yourself forward with all your weight. The jolts of pleasure sparking through your stomach elicited the smallest gasp from you. Rocking back and moving in rhythm with his hands drew a low whine of glee and delight out of Strade. Biting your lower lip, you continued to grind against Strade as you waited for the moment you knew would come. 

Groaning at your cooperation, Strade closed his eyes and threw his sweat laden head back. Shaky breaths and other disturbing noises passed through his exposed throat. The sight caused your heart to flutter. The knife still in your grasp provided a shot of courage.

The hand clutching his chest scrunched the fabric of his button up. As you dragged your core forward, you raised the knife and quickly stabbed down.

Your exhilaration came to a screeching halt when Strade jerked his head to the side. The blade missed its target by a mile and slid away from his neck, causing you to scrape your fingers on the concrete. Your pained squeal was muffled when Strade sat up straight, his face being too close for comfort. His chest pressed against yours as one of his hands left your bottom for a moment. Before you could blink, he wrenched the knife out of your hand and flung it behind him as you did his weapon.

Strade chuckled and looked up at you, his golden hues swirling with amusement.

Flickers of danger lurked in those same eyes.

The same hand held your wrist at over your head. You gulped. One second, his face had brick building for a backdrop. The next second, the backdrop became the night sky and your back crashed against the concrete.

With the air in your lungs forcefully expelled, you struggled to breathe as the sweaty man pinned you down using his own body. No escaping now. His face disappeared from view, the last of it you saw being a terrifying, troublesome grin.

Moments later, Strade's warm breath fanned over your exposed collarbone. The sensation hadn't registered before featherlight kisses were peppered along your collarbone, up one side of your neck, then down the other side. The second round of kisses were not as plentiful. He was stingier, placing them at a deliberately slow pace and taking mental notes of when you squirmed and sighed. The third round of kisses were nowhere near gentle.

When he bit down on a spot that previously made you fidget, a choked scream dwindled down to a deep gasp given his relentless nipping and licking and sucking.

You thought it was over upon feeling Strade pull away with a loud pop as his lips detached from your collarbone, but fate was not so kind. The hickey forming throbbed and stung. He moved to the next spot, restarting the process sans a trace of reluctance. Each time, he bit harder. You swore he drew blood from your neck, but you knew the multitude of liquid the man secreted was vast. Odds were saliva or sweat or his own blood.

His unkempt stubble pricked and grated against the soft skin of your neck. A wince twisted your features as he pulled his lips from the spot under your ear where your jawline faded to neck for the umpteenth time.

Wet and warm, his lips grazed against your ear every so often as he darkly muttered, "Du hast meine Erwartungen übertroffen."

His heat and weight lifted off of your body, freeing your range of movement.

CRACK

Your head snapped back, smacking the concrete. Your eyes shut and you laid unmoving on the ground. Being knocked out cold by the rough strike kept you still as Strade quickly gathered your wrists together and bound them with numerous zip ties. He paused, looking your form over several times before nodding to himself and binding your ankles together as well.

While you were unconscious and immobilized, Strade rose to his feet and stretched his arms over his head as he grabbed your discarded means of defense. The taser, your switchblade, and his beloved knife were quickly pocketed.

His attention returned to you.

Kneeling, his hands hovered over your pockets. The rest of your belongings needed to be confiscated and destroyed, especially your phone.

"Hello!" Strade's quickly glanced over his shoulder, heartbeat quickening at the sound of an older woman's voice breaking the night's silence. His concern was put to rest when he realized the woman wasn't accosting him, but some clueless pedestrian. "I don't mean to be a bother, but have you seen a woman called (Name) around here?" He grinned to himself as he scooped your lax figure into his arms.

While the thought of sticking around until she drove off was tempting, Strade knew pushing his luck wasn't smart. Better to be safe than sorry. He turned on his heel, boots thumping heavily as he sauntered deeper into the maze of the connected alleyways.

The sound of the woman's car faded to nothing within a minute of walking.

Strade navigated his way back to his car, humming a cheery tune to himself as he held your body closer to his. A chill from the barren path drew a pleased exhale from the man. 

You managed to get quite far in a short amount of time. Strade almost believed you got away, but hearing your pounding feet echoing in the distance through the alley was proof enough he could get to you before it was too late. 

He turned the corner, closing the chain-link fence behind him with a lazy kick. His discreetly parked car greeted him, a welcome sight to his weary body.

As he entered the proximity of the expensive vehicle, the doors unlocked with a near silent click. Strade easily opened the backdoor of the car and carefully set your sleeping form on the seat. He smiled at the sight, victorious pride flaring in his chest. You were one hell of a target **.** Good thing Strade loved the chase, a thrilling one at that.

He shut the door and slunk to the driver's side. Lowering himself into the seat, Strade breathed a sigh of relief as he fished the keys from his pocket. The engine revved to life quietly **.** Hands gripping the wheel, Strade rolled out of the alley and turned onto the street.

Excited giggles left him as his eyes locked onto a red Prius slowly inching past the Braying Mule. An older woman sat behind the wheel, her confused gaze scanning the area. A troubled frown curved her lips. Her shoulders visibly drooped. They perked right back up when she saw Strade's car cruising closer to her own vehicle. Lights flashing, she waved Strade down with a hopeful smile, and Strade couldn't be so rude as to ignore an older woman in need of assistance.

Rolling down his tinted window, the man wore a friendly smile as the she stopped her car beside his. "I'm so sorry to bother you-…are you alright?!" Her eyes widened when she saw the sorry state Strade was in. Her strained voice was too shrill and annoying for him.

"Oh, it's no problem at all, miss. Just a bit of a bar brawl." Strade waved her worry away, shooting her a reassuring smile and nod.

She furrowed her brows. The expression screamed disbelief, but she didn't call him out on it. "Men…" She muttered under her breath, shaking her head with a disappointed frown. "I suppose you won then?"

Strade grinned, a jolt of excitement traveling beneath his naval. "You could say that."

"I wanted to ask…have you seen a woman around here?" She pulled her phone off of the hook, tapped the screen, and showed him a picture of you. "I'm supposed to be picking up a (Name) (Last Name) around here, but I can't seem to find her."

Seeing your face made the man giddy, but he hid it well. What a little liar you were. As he suspected, your friend wasn't coming, but you fooled him for a while.

He leaned his head out of the window. Narrowing his eyes, he took his time studying your attractive features. Shining (e/c) eyes full of hope and happiness. (H/L), (h/c) hair perfectly framing your (s/c) face. Full lips pulled upward in a pretty smile. Strade fought the urge to lick his lips and look back at you.

After a few moments, Strade closed his eyes and bowed his head, shaking it slowly. "No, I haven't unfortunately." He opened his eyes, sporting faux sympathy like a champ. "I'm sorry."

The woman clicked her tongue, pulled her phone back into the car, and set it back on the stand, sighing, "Damn it." She turned to Strade again, her wrinkles deepening as she scrunched her face. "Poor girl picked a bad place to be so late at night with all those disappearances around here."

"I know." Strade kept his voice low. Otherwise, it'd hike up in pitch and reveal his twisted glee at hearing about his achievements. "I hope you can find her."

"I hope so as well."

Upon seeing her disheartened expression, Strade felt joy flicker in his heart. He stifled the dangerous feeling and turned on the kindness. "If I see her, I'll let her know her Uber is looking for her." The man promised with a determined smile.

The woman brushed a stray lock of greying hairs behind her ear and mirrored his smile. She seemed none the wiser. Good. "Thank you for your help…"

"Strade." He said, placing a hand on his chest.

She nodded. "I'm sorry for holding you up. I'll get out of your hair." She gripped her wheel and prepared to do another lap around the block before she froze in place. "Oh! Strade?" The man paused, tensing as he looked at the driver. 

He tilted his head. "Yes?"

"Stay out of those bar fights!" She waggled a bony, wrinkled finger at him. A glare reduced her eyes to slits as she scolded, "Don't mess up that handsome face anymore."

A warm chuckle slipped through his once clenched teeth. He sat up straight, ignoring the ache of his body as he said, "Yes, ma'am."

Satisfied with her parenting advice, the older woman withdrew her hand and placed it on the steering wheel. She turned her attention back to the road and drove past the bar where (Name) was supposed to be. Strade rolled his window up and put slight pressure on the gas pedal. The car rolled along the road, leaving the red Prius, the Uber driver, and the Braying Mule in the dust.

He traveled in silence, focusing on the rearview mirror until he turned down several streets and put a considerable distance between himself and his stalking grounds.

A sound mixed with a groan and a moan echoed in the car. His fleeting gaze observed you in all your limp and beaten glory before studying his own abused features. 

It had been a while…no, none of his victims put him through the ringer like you did. Hot, sweaty, and pained, his body ached in more ways than one.

His neck still tingled with static numbness from your taser stunt. His right hand suffered quite the bite. His nose was broken and sloppily reset. His left wrist leaked blood from your impressive disarming maneuver. His back cramped from the heavy, graceless falls he suffered. His thighs worked through the cramps you inflicted on them. And most importantly, the painful throbbing between his legs stiffened him to incredibly uncomfortable lengths.

He bit his lip, one hand falling from the wheel to his lap. He palmed the rock hard bulge in his pants and crooned to himself, "This will be fun."

"Fuck you."

Eyes widening with alarm, Strade whirled around only to be immediately blinded by a substance that burned his eyes. It continued to spurt and coat his face, entering his nostrils and mouth. It also seeped into his cuts, magnifying the pain tenfold. A terrifying howl ripped through his throat. German violently flew from his lips as he rubbed at his eyes and screamed louder. 

You kept spraying your pepper gel to the best of your ability until the can was empty. Dropping it, you shakily inhaled and started crawling toward the car door. The sharp swerving made it difficult to stay balanced, but you kept your weight low and continued on.

Peering up, you felt your heart plummet into your stomach's bottomless pit. 'No handles?! Are you fucking kidding?' Dread swirled in your head, making it impossible to think amidst the chaos unfolding. Strade's furious cursing made you turn your head, but something else captured your interest: his headrest. Your hands fiddled with the leather, fingers digging into the material as you mustered the remainder of your strength to tear it upward. Sharp, metal prongs glinted and gleamed.

Closing your eyes, you turned back to the window, raised the object up, and slammed it against the window, shattering it with ease. Some glass landed in the seat, most of it fell away to the road. Just as you were about to discard the head rest, your eyes flickered to Strade. Any semblance of restraint or reluctance was as existent as the window you broke. Scooting to the edge of the leather seat, you lifted the pronged object once again and thrusted downward. Luckily, he swerved in time for you to miss his throat and impale his chest. The sound of flesh ripping, insides squelching, and Strade wailing in pain was music to your ears.

Climbing through the window was a trial of willpower in itself. Glass sliced ands shredded your knees, tearing your pants open. The same occurred with your arms and stomach as you hoisted yourself through the gaping hole. You barely had time to brace yourself when you fell out.

Your body tumbled like that ravioli can from the Chef Boyardee commercial. Grimacing, you fought to stay conscious until you came to a stop.

The skin on your elbows was nonexistent at this point. You ground your teeth at the sharp, intense stinging as you army crawled as fast as possible in the opposite direction of Strade's car. "HEEEEEEY!" You screamed, throat burning from the sheer volume of your voice. "SOMEONE! ANYONE! FIRE! THERE'S A FUCKING FIRE! HELP! HE--"

A heavy boot stomping on your back deflated your lungs, effectively silencing you. Fear shot through you. You let out a pathetic whine as he dug and twisted his heel in your back. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw Strade struggling to keep his red eyes opened, tears rolling down his cheeks.

The last thing you saw was Strade rearing his fist back before you were finally submerged in comforting darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will be the best one I break. -----> Du wirst die Beste sein, die ich breche.
> 
> Once you leave this place, I will take you. -----> Wenn du diesen Ort verlässt, werde ich dich mitnehmen.
> 
> I'm pretty sure you will, but I hope you fight. -----> Ich bin mir ziemlich sicher, dass du es wirst, aber ich hoffe du kämpfst.
> 
> Fight all you want. I love it when they struggle/I love to struggle. -----> Kämpfe gegen alles, was du willst. Ich liebe es, wenn sie kämpfen/ich liebe es zu kämpfen.
> 
> I'm going to be tied up in your basement. -----> Ich werde in deinem Keller gefesselt sein.
> 
> I'll be helpless. I'll scream. I'll cry. You're going to cut me up all over. -----> Ich werde hilflos sein. Ich werde schreien. Ich werde weinen. Du wirst mich überall zerschneiden.
> 
> Please cut me up, Strade. Make me bleed and rub it all over me. I want you to lick me clean. -----> Bitte schneide mich auf, Strade. Lass mich bluten und reibe alles über mich. Ich möchte, dass du mich sauber leckst.
> 
> Then we will-- -----> Dann werden wir--
> 
> Schnell -----> Fast/Nimble/Quick
> 
> How naughty! -----> Wie ungezogen!
> 
> A woman after my own heart. -----> Eine Frau ganz nach meinem Geschmack!
> 
> If you keep this up… -----> Wenn du so weiter machst …
> 
> Look at what you've done. -----> Schau dir an, was du getan hast.
> 
> Oh, girl. -----> Oh Mädchen.
> 
> You have exceeded my expectations. -----> Du hast meine Erwartungen übertroffen.


	2. When in Rome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut incoming. If you count oral. This is a long one. Sorry.

Waking to your muscles roaring with paralyzing ache in pitch black darkness? Mildly terrifying, especially considering you couldn't move your hands. And any attempts to do so burned the skin on your already raw, pulsating wrists.

Cold seeped up from the concrete floor you laid on, drained the warmth from your back and left you shivering with goosebumps littering your skin.

The warring temperatures caused your shoulders to painfully throb to life. A gnawing sensation trickled up and down your sides. It quickly spread, and your entire being lit up with buzzing pain like you were Cavity Sam on the Operation table. Your ribs were the most tender after the beatdown they took, earning a weary groan from you. "Ohh…fuck."

Inklings of panic dripped through you, gathering in the ever-growing pool of anxiety settling in your stomach. Trying to call forth your memories brought nothing but inquiries that piled on themselves.

Where the fuck were you? What the hell was that dingy smell? Why were you tied to a damn pole? How did this even happen?

The torrent of unanswerable questions drew a shaky, quiet sob from you. Against your will, your breathing rapidly quickened. Sight blurring from the bubbling tears, you fought to swallow the lump in your throat, nearly choking on what little spit formed in your arid mouth.

The pounding of your heart, the difficulty in breathing, the new pain blossoming every few seconds all over your person…

If you continued to let yourself spiral, you were toast for sure.

"Focus, (Name)." You whispered to yourself, blinking the tears away as you stared at the wooden beams above you. The foggy memory needed to be dealt with.

You were at a bar. The Braying…Mule? Yeah, that was the place. Jack flaked on you. Instead of leaving, you decided to have at least one drink to make the night worth it. But before you could dip, a man approached you. His name was S….Strade. An irked grunt rumbled in your chest. He stunk like rotten, fermented garbage. Unfortunately, he didn't LOOK the part. Yet, he was still creepy enough for you to catch onto his bullshit. You managed to get his face on video. You even sent it to your friends, so they knew. Then you booked an Uber and dared to flirt with death until death got a little too into it. You fled. Almost made it too. Strade had other plans. Both of you fought tooth and nail, but judging from your current…predicament, the victor was Strade.

Though it seemed hopeless, you had one silver lining in this tempest of a shituation. Before you unleashed a whole can of pepper gel in his face, you hid your phone in his car. The fancy cupholder compartment served as your last beacon to the outside world. You hoped he hadn't thought to search for it after he recaptured you in your last ditch effort to escape. 

Your breathing slowed. Your heart calmed. Your body adjusted to the pain.

Eyes free of tears, you lifted your head off the ground. Gripping the pole as hard as possible, you shimmied closer to it and used it to help you sit up. Your feet pushed against the concrete. Leaning against the pole for support as you extended your tense muscles hurt a bit more than you anticipated. At least you could use the pole to crack your stiff back like a glowstick.

With no comfortable way to hold your arms up, you rested them on your head like you were trying to catch your breath.

Like the rest of your body, your eyes swiftly adapted to the room submerged in darkness. Ignoring the suffocating stench was a chore, but you managed.

Pipes, lots of them. You had to be in the basement. Cupboards and cabinets were everywhere. A sink, a fridge. One of them appeared to be open, stocked with cleaning supplies if you had to guess. But you doubted it, should the awful odor be any indication. Rope or steel wires hung under the opened cupboard. Tools hung next to the binding material: a hammer, tweezers, and pliers. A vice grip dangled precariously above the tallest cupboard. Another troubling object was the buzz saw sitting prettily near the opening on your left.

The conclusion you came to was quick and sickening.

You were stuck in a serial killer's basement.

"Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant." You whispered, wincing as pain shot through your awkwardly positioned limbs.

THUMP

THUMP

THUMP

Your heart rate spiked upon hearing the heavy footfall overhead. You held your breath, eyes wide with fear as the trudging became louder and louder to your left. Wooden steps croaked for mercy under the strain of careless weight stomping on them. Out of your peripheral, a beam of light momentarily outlined a person's form.

Intense humming accompanied the blinding flash of light that flooded the room. You grunted and shut your eyes, squeezing tightly to rid yourself of the pain. Lashes fluttering as your vision corrected itself, you heard footsteps echoing to your left. Slow, deliberate, and intimidating.

Half of you didn't want to open your eyes. You didn't want to see who entered the basement you were trapped in. The other half knew what was coming and wanted to get it over with. The sooner, the better, like ripping off a band-aid.

Exhaling slowly, you took a moment to brace yourself before opening your eyes. There stood the man of the hour in all his glory.

"Oh!" Strade's face lit up with a grin full of delight. "You're finally awake!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands once and rubbing them together. His hands planted on his hips, Strade appeared to be a beaming ray of sunshine as he chirped, "How ya feeling, (Name)?"

"Super." You answered, tone sharp and cold as you glared at the man.

It was then you noticed the bruising and swelling decorating his smug features. The green button up was gone, leaving a black tank top to cover his torso. Cuts and scratches marred his chest and biceps.

Despite being tied up in a creep's basement, you were compelled to knock that fake smile off of his face. "Damn." You started as you slowly lifted your foot to point at his face. Waving it in a small circles, you adopted an innocent, concerned look and asked, "What happened to your…everything?"

Just as you wanted, the faux, charming grin vanished, but the expression that replaced it made you slightly regret it.

He slunk forward, hands curled into fists. Unwavering and burning with anger, his eyes bore into you without blinking. As he suddenly reared his fist back, you braced yourself for impact and closed your eyes. You waited, and waited…and waited. Nothing came.

Cracking one open was what HE was waiting for. Heavy weight smashed into your tender ribcage, knocking the wind out of you. The kick made you twitch and cough.

"Fuck you." You cried out through clenched teeth. Seething didn't BEGIN to describe your anger. Shouting as loud as possible took its toll on your aching throat. "You're lucky my hands are tied, or else I'd fuck you up!"

Spittle flew from your mouth, landing at on Strade's boot. Strade threw his head back. "Bahaha!" Obnoxiously booming guffaws echoed throughout the basement. His laughing fit lasted far too long for your taste. And when it did die down, he wiped away the tears that formed and gleefully added, "You are so full of energy!" He stared at you, mischief and greed shinning in his eyes. A dreamy sigh escaped the man. "I know we're going to have so much fun together."

"I knew you were fucking demented." Swallowing the knot in your throat became impossible after hearing his threatening promise he masqueraded as something harmlessly fun.

Strade's back suddenly straightened. His eyes were wide with recognition as he snapped a finger. The charmer voice was back on as he smiled down at you. "Before we get started, you want something to eat? Something to drink?"

His mood switches gave you painful whiplash. "W-What?" You stammered.

The man mimed biting down on burger and sipping from a cup. His teasing went very much unappreciated as he reduced his questions down to one word. "Hungry? Thirsty?"

Your throat was beyond parched. Your stomach growled at the prospect of a meal after an unknown amount of time. As much as you wanted to buckle down and go on a hunger strike, you preferred not having to feel your stomach cramp and twist and ache. You chewed the inside of your cheek. "Both." Came your low murmur.

Strade's voice kicked up a few pitches. "I thought so!"

He left the room and returned just as quickly, a wrapped bar in hand. The green on the wrapper faded in some parts. Other spots were silver since the color flaked off completely. You cringed when the inevitable question invaded your mind. How long had he kept the energy bar? Maybe it wasn't too late to change your mind. Sure, Strade might lash out at you as he clearly saw himself as a gracious host. But were you willing to risk a beating or worse over an upset stomach?

Beggars can't be choosers.

'Am I begging though?' You furrowed your brow as you observed him acting as though this was a completely normal situation. He waltzed over to the fridge, opened it, and reached inside. 'Let's test it.'

Leaning forward to catch a glimpse of what was inside, you saw an entire row dedicated to beer. His other hand clasped around a green can, one you easily identified.

"Heineken?" You found yourself frowning. Strade perked up, glancing in your direction as you leaned further. A white can with gold trimmings caught your attention. Nodding, you licked your dry lips and asked, "Can I get that Modelo?"

Strade's thick brows knotted together, as if your outlandish request were in an alien language. His golden irises flickered upward while he was in deep thought. He pressed his lips into a thin line. A deep, rumbling noise rattled in his chest, and you rolled your eyes. Seemed like you weren't in high enough standings to get what you asked for-

"Sure!"

You blinked.

Out came a nice, cold can of your preferred beer. Strade kicked the fridge door closed. He happily ambled your way, whistling a merry tune as he stopped at your feet and set the items he carried on the floor.

"Untie me so I can-…" You trailed off as Strade plopped down in front of you, sitting with his legs crossed. He plucked the energy bar off of the ground and tore the wrapper off. He peeled it back halfway before raising the bar to your lips. Lashes fluttering in utter disbelief, you furrowed your brows and unintentionally blurted, "Are you serious?"

Strade giggled at your outburst as if it was the most adorable thing he'd heard. He booped your nose, grinning brightly while he chimed, "I don't want you to starve!" The way he said that as if it was the most obvious thing in the world irked you. Catching sight of your irritated scowl dampened his grin into a dangerous smile. He leaned closer, and hissed through his teeth, "And freeing you isn't an option." Just as quickly as his threatening behavior appeared, it dissipated and allowed his chipper, sunny disposition to return with a beaming grin. He waved the energy bar and pressed it to your lips as he crooned, "Say ahhh."

Fighting down the heat that spurred from embarrassment and fury, you eventually relented and took a bite. It was dry, a bit stale, and about as tasty as you thought it'd be. It wasn't.

"Not bad, hm?" Strade asked, an odd amount of pride hanging on his words.

You roughly gulped the chewed up mush and quickly took another bite to avoid having to answer truthfully. Much to your relief, the man failed to detect your smooth evasion and smiled at your eagerness to chow down, chuckling joyfully as he pulled the last bits of the energy bar out. The wrapper was shoved into his pocket. He held his hand out, raising an expectant brow as he closely watched you. Glancing down at the last portion of the energy bar, you took a deep breath and tried using your teeth to snare it without having to touch Strade's palm.

Unfortunately, he saw it coming and pulled his hand away. He tutted and shook his head, reprimanding you silently. Strade tapped his own lips, a shit eating smirk pulling them up at a crooked angle. He communicated his demand well enough.

Your teeth clasped the bar as you lips brushed his palms. Strade visibly shivered at the contact, speckles of red blooming on his cheeks.

He hummed as he traced the spot your lips touched with his other hand. "Good."

Once Strade stopped being a creep for a second, he picked up the can of beer and cracked it open. He scooted closer before pressing the rim of the cold beer to your lips. The condensation was immediately absorbed into your dry lips. With a surprising flex of patience, he poured just enough and allowed you to retreat when you needed to.

"You like Modelo?" He asked, noting the smallest smile appearing on your face after you downed the mouthful.

Was having a conversation with your kidnapper strange? "Yeah." You answered.

Strade gave you another plentiful pour as he stated, "I don't like them much, but I'm sure I can get used to them."

A little liquid was left over, but you weren't given the chance to finish it. Strade put the can to his lips and drained the remainder. A pang of betrayal stung your heart. You watched as he gave a hiss of approval after finishing the beer. He tossed the can into the trash from where he stood, the most impressive feat he's accomplished aside from his unmatched BO.

Strade glanced at you, eyes brightening at something he noticed. "Ah, you got a little something right there." He said, leaning forward and picking away the crumbs that apparently stuck to the corner of your lips.

You could only gawk in disgust when he dragged his thumb over your wet lip, collecting the last drops of beer and combining it with the crumbs he licked off his hand.

"All finished." He warmly purred, eyes half lidded as he lazily devoured your terrified expression. Strade rose to his feet.

And suddenly, he yanked at a holster on his hip, revealing the familiar shiny blade you came close to meeting several times during your bout in the alley. He stepped closer and grabbed a handful of your shirt, lifting you up with ease.

"Whoa! HEY! WHOA!" You shook your head and tried to squirm out of his unwavering hold. When your efforts proved fruitless, you stopped and yelled, "What are you doing?!"

"Your clothes are in the way." Strade replied with a small shrug.

"They're there for a reason!" You shot back, your scrutinizing gaze never leaving the sharp blade that dug under your shirt. The tip of the curved blade emerged through your shirt, causing you to croak out, "STOP!"

Your demand went ignored.

Strade flicked his wrist upward, tearing a sizeable hole down the middle as he dragged the knife to your collar. The fabric slipped off your abdomen, revealing your bruised skin. His patient, gentle hand was gone, replaced by a quick, powerful fiend dead-set on ridding your form of clothes. You bit back a hiss each time he nicked your skin. The pants were torn to shreds as well, leaving you in just your underwear.

With nothing separating your skin from the concrete floor, the cold began to nip and cling easily. Your ass bore the brunt of the cold, quickly numbing from it. You shivered.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Strade raised his chin to look over your mostly bare form, a nonchalant smile on his lips. The longer he stared, the bigger he grinned. His lids drooped, a troubling sigh rumbling in his chest. Sweat gleamed on his forehead as his breathing deepened. "You're so…" Watching him think was almost as unnerving as what came out of his mouth next. "Unbroken." He drawled.

"My ribs beg to differ." You wheezed, curling and uncurling your body as waves of pain spread quickly starting at your palpitating side.

Swooping down to one knee, the man pressed his large hand to the splotches of purple, red, and green painting the side of your body. He rubbed up and down the curve of your side. The warmth and motion of his palm stirred powerful throbbing and more pain from his unwelcome touch.

Strade's entire face lit up as he pressed his hand harder against your ribs, no doubt feeling your muscles convulsing under your skin. His hand slowly trailed down to your thighs, giving them a proper squeeze.

The moment was both too sensual and too antagonistic for you, his pendulum demeanor at it's midpoint. You only knew this prick for less than a few hours, but you expected one of his extreme sides to show momentarily. Whether in the form of a punch to your poor ribs or undesired affection like licking, something unpleasant was coming.

And it came in the form of a tight grip, a blade to your thigh, and acute, searing pain. Languidly, Strade moved the knife along your leg, slitting open your skin and allowing crimson to bloom from the wound.

Stifling a scream on instinct, you gritted your teeth and inhaled sharply. Your hands thrashed and struggled, relighting the burns on your bound wrists.

You heard Strade's breathing pick up again.

He cut you again, deeper and harder. Before you could gasp, he slashed you a third time, then a fourth.

"Ah…" He shakily said, "I'm getting too excited."

You were shaking too. Not out of excitement like your captor nor fear like you expected, but out of anger. Pure, unadulterated anger and an increasing drive to break your wrists to escape your binds to exact your revenge on the man.

Strade brought the knife to his pants, cleaned them, and looked back at you. The sweat pouring down his face was soon joined by a deep blush dying his face red. "Oh no." Pointing like a child would, his gesture to your bleeding leg only added kindling to your flaring, building rage. "Look how much you're bleeding." He panted, the sincerity of his concern about as existent as his sanity.

You opened your mouth to hurl a conga line of diverse insults at the man, but the burning in your leg silenced you. Small, pained noises were all that left you. Even if you wanted to scream and shout and cry, you just couldn't seem to.

"Mmm…" The blush softened in intensity and the sweat dried for the most part. He shook his head, sadly musing, "You're not gonna last like that."

He walked backwards without taking his eyes off of your hurt form. His hand patted behind him, clasping the grip on one of the drawers. After fishing out a small medical kit, he presented the item and shook it front of you, as if he was tempting a dog to play by waggling a tennis ball.

"Would you like me to stitch those up for you?" Strade asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

The combination of pain stemming from your diced up leg, sore ribs, and anger frying your brain delayed your much awaited response. Focusing on your breathing would help control…a lot of what you felt you couldn't. You closed your eyes.

Count to four, inhale.

Count to four, exhale.

Albeit slight, you felt the pain lessening. After another few counts spent honing your breathing, you swallowed and cracked your eyes open to slits. "No." You lowly growled.

Confusion danced across Strade's features. He tilted his head, and brushed his sweat soaked hair behind his ear as he cupped it. "What was that?" He asked, a giggle accentuating the mocking question.

"No." You repeated, hoping your glare would strike him dead where he stood. "No. Nein. Non. Net." You spat as your voice climbed in volume. "Understand?"

His amusement disappeared. "You won't survive."

"I. Don't. Give. A. Shit." Fury laced your venomous, heated tone. It felt good to shout at him. Watching the pompous grin slide right off of his stupidly handsome face brought a sense of gratification that helped numb your aching body. Sitting up straight, you leaned forward and seethed, "You're fucking NOT touching me, you freaky bitch!"

His stoic expression remained for a beat. Suddenly, he straightened his posture and narrowed his eyes, a vindictive smile slowly creeping onto his lips. "Are you…afraid it'll hurt?"

You took a second to wait for the pain to subside before you sneered, "I'm more concerned you'll give me an infection."

Strade did not like that.

He dropped the needle and thread back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and swiftly closed the distance between himself and you. A waft of his sweat stench hit you from how fast he moved. Dropping into a crouch, his face was so close to yours, you felt his breaths fanning your cheeks.

The man reached out, settling a hand on your far upper thigh. He looked down as he barely closed his fingers on your thigh. He gave your limb a small shake as his gaze drifted back up to yours, one of his canines buried in his lower lip.

He thrummed, "Sometimes things you don’t want will happen."

Anyone could see his shitty attempt at an eerie warning was more of a threatening prediction. Of course, the prediction would come true when Strade was at the helm of the ship.

His grip loosened entirely as he dragged his hand lower and traced his finger over your biggest wound. Head bowed slightly, he looked up at you through his lashes.

The man leaned in close until you felt his lips brushing your ear. His disgustingly hot breath made you recoil and shiver in revulsion as he whispered, "And there won't be anything you can do about it."

Without any warning, Strade jabbed his thumb into the wound. A whole new world of pain came crashing into you as he added more fingers to dig into your flesh. Choked sobs were strangled in your throat as your body rocked and jolted from the foreign appendages assaulting a place you thought to be unreachable. Your stomach churned due to the squelching and splattering. Any attempt to move your leg resulted in a heavy knee weighing it down, ensuring the trauma he wished to deal to you. He dug his nails in like a cat scratching a post for relief.

"Are you sure you don't want stitches?" He murmured against your ear, his tongue flicking at your earlobe.

You snapped your head away from his. You saw his flustered appearance. In a burst of defiance, you shouted the first thing that came to mind, "Finger me all you want! I'm not caving!"

Time stopped. The red tint dusting Strade's cheeks darkened and spread down to his neck. Even his collarbone and shoulders glowed red. His fingers, nailbed deep in the meat of your thighs, retreated from the slashes he created. He brought them up to his lips, stared at you, and sucked your blood off of his fingertips like it was dipping sauce.

"Wai--" Strade seized your face with one hand, firmly clutching your jaw and effectively silencing you. Waves of throbbing pain rippled out from the points he held. Strade rose up from his kneeling position, a smirk gracing his lips.

His golden hues locked onto your (e/c) ones. He tilted your chin upward. His free hand fumbled with the zipper of his pants, the sound almost thundering and deafening in your hearing as you realized what was going to happen.

With his crotch and obvious erection straining against his pants, it would be hard to not understand the dire situation.

Trashing to escape out of Strade's hold did you no good as he freed his dick. Sans meaning to, you stopped your squirming and narrowed your eyes, examining the dick less than an inch away from your face.

The hold on your cheeks slurred your speech as your honest thoughts left a place that shouldn't have created them. "Das it?" You asked, brow raised as you looked up at Strade.

He didn't take too kindly to your unimpressed reaction. The hand grasping your lower jaw loosened and gently slid to cup the side of your bruised up neck. It climbed up through your tresses of (h/c) hair until it laid against the back of your head. His hand was tangled in your hair, and he quickly punished you for your unintentional insult.

The open palm curled into a tight fist. He didn't hesitate to yank your head back as he viciously hissed, "You won't have trouble taking all of me then."

You hadn't meant to wince, but Strade saw the brief flicker of pain and grinned. Lust glazed over his eyes. His free hand disappeared behind his back for a second. When it returned, the gleam of his blade caused your heart to stutter. A pit formed in your gut. Again, bearing witness to the fear flashing prominently in your eyes made Strade's dick twitch with excitement.

"Open up~." He sang, placing the knife against your puckered lips. The slight pressure he applied cut into your supple flesh and drew a thin line of blood. You cracked. The sting of the cut, the ache in your jaw, the tension of your hair pulled taut.

For a moment, you were overwhelmed by the assault on your senses and opened your mouth. Though your better judgement kicked in a second later, it was too late.

Strade slipped the knife into your mouth blade up. It clicked and slid into the notches of your teeth, harmlessly passing over your tongue and bone as he made way for the leaking member drifting ever closer to your mouth. Unable to bite down, you could only sit and watch as the head of his sex entered your mouth. You flinched when an uncanny warmth radiated off of it and opened wider on instinct to avoid touching him as long as you could.

A mistake, in retrospect.

Simultaneously pulling your head forward and thrusting his hips forward forced an unprepared gag out of you. Amused chuckles followed his satisfied groan. With your mouth occupied, you closed your eyes and breathed through your nose.

The initial panic of having Strade's cock unceremoniously shoved down your throat wore off.

You considered chomping down to teach the bastard a lesson, but the glint of the knife disappearing into your mouth and the cold steel harmlessly grazing your tongue motivated you to air on the side of caution.

Did you want to blow the man who kidnapped and is currently assaulting you? Hell no. However, just letting him furiously fuck your face and use your mouth as a personal flesh-light also did not tickle your fancy. The competitive, defiant fire in you refused to let him use you. God knew how long it would take if you sat there and just took it. If you took control, then it'd be a different story. Making quick work of him wouldn't be difficult. You were sure of it.

Hands gripping the pole behind you to keep yourself steady, you slid your legs under you so you were on your knees. Blood leaked from the wounds, dribbling down your thighs and pooling around your knees. You'd have to take whatever comfort you could find.

Before he could thrust like a wild animal again, you looked up at him through your lashes and used the tip of your tongue to lick the slit of his cock. His eyes widened in surprise. Moments later, a flame of excitement burned in his golden hues.

You maintained eye contact, allowing your eyelids to lower slightly to match his own expression to a tee. The deliberately, torturously slow pace continued as you expertly swirled your tongue around the tip. Closing your lips on his member and sucking softly as you bobbed halfway along his dick avoided the threat of the knife slitting your mouth open.

He received the message, loud and clear. His knife retreated from your mouth and found its way back onto Strade's hip. His hand shook as he struggled to sheathe it properly. The balled up fist tangled in your hair loosened back to its open palm. Now free of the weapon, Strade's other hand hastily slipped into your hair as well.

Dicks weren't supposed to be salty. It was somewhat easy to ignore when he first caught you off guard, but now the flavor was prominent. Given how Strade sweated buckets, you were not surprised.

Just a little disgusted.

Just a little.

Hoping to counter it, you gathered the thick saliva that formed and coated his shaft with it, all the way down to the base where the bushel of pubic hair tickled your lips and nose. The groan floating from his lips quickly evolved into a deep moan as you withdrew, tongue dragging against the bottom of his shaft. Using your chest, you hummed loudly, vibrating his dick slightly. Each ridge was slowly caressed, the tip of your tongue tracing the frenulum and sliding around the tip, earning an intense shudder from Strade.

You leaned back slightly, giving your jaw some reprieve while you laid a trail of kisses along his length, making sure to plant some over each vein you passed. Every kiss was followed by a twitch or visible throb. As you directed your attention to the underside of his cock, you reached the base and slowly tore your gaze from Strade's. The last thing you saw in his eyes was a heavy concoction of lust, intrigue, and hunger.

Working without your hands proved to be a small obstacle you quickly overcame. You dipped under his dick and eyed your new target, or targets. Leaning forward, you tilted your head, opened your mouth, and clasped your teeth on the black cloth of his boxers.

As gently as possible, you peeled the material open, stopping when there was enough room for you to stick your mouth in.

A tone of impatience escaped him as he hissed, "What are you--"

His breath hitched, the rest of his angry question hanging in the air when your tongue slid under his balls, scooping both into your cupped appendage. You hummed, the vibration drawing a gasp from the man. Carefully, you leaned back and pulled them out of his boxers. Your tongue withdrew from under them, causing them to lay against his pants.

This is what separated the people who had the discipline to hang with you and those who came undone in under a minute.

If your hands were free, it would be a wrap in less than thirty seconds, no doubt.

Taking one in and gently sucking while pulling ever so slightly, you got to work, listening to the guttural purrs Strade made and adding some of your own muffled moans. You did the same to the other, going slow as to not hurt him. Even if you wanted to, badly. You then took both in your mouth, turning a little, sucking a bit harder, pulling a tad more.

You made it a point to not look up at him until you sucked on the crease between his balls. The sight brought a smirk to your lips. Strade threw his head back, eyes rolling back into his head as a loud moan ripped out of his throat. The hands in your hair flexed and twitched as he grabbed onto you like his life was on the line. It transitioned from its breathy sound to a deep growl you felt as you licked the bottom his sack, moved up the seam along the underside of his shaft, and flicking the tip of his dick with your tongue to make it bob. You pressed a kiss directly to the head, right against the slit.

Flattening your tongue, you opened your mouth and returned most of your attention to his leaking member. Strade's shaken breathing hinted at his unraveling. You mewled as you wrapped your lips around his member, sucking and sliding while licking the underside when you could. Focused on fighting the gag each time you went as deep as possible, you coated him with hot saliva, held him at the back of your throat for a few seconds, and kept staring at him.

Most of his visible skin burned a deep scarlet. Drool leaked from his own mouth as he watched you work diligently at sucking his cock. Heat pooled in his abdomen, increasing in intensity with each completed tip to base to tip suck. His hips started to twitch and thrust in rhythm with your movements. Sweat drenched his tank top, skin, and hair.

When you noticed his balls had grown tighter, you dedicated some time to them. The bush of pubic hair served as a powerful deterrent. You weren't brave enough to lick where his balls connected to his front.

Just under the money spot would have to do, and it did. His knees almost buckled as he stuttered an inhale of desperate breath.

His thrusts grew more erratic, so you craned your neck and took all of him again. You slid your tongue around his shaft as you drew back to his tip, unwrapping the slimy appendage as you tilted your head the other way and rewrapped your tongue around him. Drool dripped off his cock after each pass. Drool dribbled down your chin and chest after each pass, his thrusts displacing the thick liquid as he started to curl over you. Both of your moans filled the air along with the quiet slapping of skin and gags.

Strade's hands tightly clenched your hair. His fingertips dug into your scalp as he gave one final thrust and held himself as deep into your mouth as he could go. "SCHEISSE!" He yelled as he reached his climax, dick throbbing and pulsating as he shot his cum down your throat.

You didn't have much of a choice but to swallow the plentiful bursts of his release. He stayed in your mouth for a bit, panting heavily as he recovered from his orgasm. You gained no pleasure from the act, but it was over and done with relatively quickly.

Your steady breathing through your nose kept you calm as Strade took his sweet time getting himself together.

When he finally stood up and let your hair go, he stepped back and slowly tugged his cock from your mouth. Feeling a bit vengeful, you sucked slightly as he pulled himself out, the rounded tip slipping past your puckered lips with a little difficulty. The quietest pop followed once his member fully left you. Strade gave a content sigh at the action. He traced his fingers against his softened dick and closely examined the saliva left on it.

"Amazing." Strade hummed, bringing his fingers to his lip and licking your saliva off of his digits. He put himself away, tenderly. "Good to know your mouth has better uses than talking." He stated as his breathing evened. He raked his hands through his hair, slicking the greased locks back as he grinned. "That was quite the performance."

The horrid taste of his spunk lingered in the back of your throat. Throwing a sardonic smile at the man, you nodded at the fridge and said, "Then reward me with another beer."

His wide, toothy grin reduced to a straight lip and a narrowed gaze. He studied you quietly, and you stared him down with the same intensity, even if a flicker of nervousness made your heart skip a beat. He ran his tongue over his teeth as his lips slowly curled up, a crooked smile gracing his features.

Through a small laugh, Strade nodded and commented, "I suppose you earned it." The fridge hummed when he opened it. He pulled out two cans. Yours cracked with a hiss as he approached.

Dropping to one knee, he held the can to your mouth and tilted it. Like the first beer he offered, Strade patiently assisted you in consuming it.

The cold drink was refreshing, and it helped clean your palette of Strade's multitude of unlikeable flavors. A sigh of disappointment left you when you finished the damn thing. Strade laughed at your reaction, which you scowled at.

He stood up, dropping the can to the floor and crushing it under his heavy boot. He plucked the metal pancake off the ground. He tossed it in the trash like a frisbee before turning back to you. When you tried craning your neck to stay out of his reach, his fingers tightly pinched your cheek. He pulled your face closer to him, so your noses almost touched as he leaned down.

"Rest well." Strade cooed, his callused hand petting the spot where he pinched your cheek softly, a little too lovingly for your taste.

After a couple more gentle pats, the man stepped away from you and made his way toward the staircase. You heard the pop and fizzle of his can of beer opening and the loud guzzling which followed.

"One more thing." Upon hearing your voice, Strade paused at the foot of the stairs and looked over at you with a raised brow. "I don't ask for a lot, much less BEG." His smirk annoyed you, so you were more than happy to dramatically quip, "But please, take a fucking shower, Strade."

He stared blankly for a moment. He then raised his can at you and let out an amused snort, "Sicher, Prinzessin."

You watched his form ascend upstairs, the wooden boards whining under his step. Within seconds, you were bathed in darkness as a heavy door slammed shut. The smallest of clicks managed to snuff out your brief hope he'd forget to lock the door behind him.

Stuck in the abyss, again.

Strade had to admit you were far more of a spitfire than he first evaluated you to be.

Not one of his prior victims gave him a proper fight. You held that title by a landslide. Five minutes hadn't even passed when you surged past your own record by blinding him with pepper gel, impaling him with his own headrest, and then jumping out of a speeding car with your hands and feet still bound.

He actually feared he would be caught when you started screaming and making quite the fuss. For a moment, Strade considered leaving you behind. Cut his losses, and live to fight another day. But he knew better than to risk that.

You knew his face. You knew his name. You knew his game. What he was capable of and his past crimes would be uncovered if he let you go.

That was enough motivation to swoop in and snatch you up again.

Thankfully, you hadn't crawled far and no lights from the apartment buildings turned on from your screaming. One punch to knock you out was a blessing given he could barely see at all. Carrying you like a sack of potatoes, Strade hastily made it back to his car and tossed you in. He left the car running for a speedy getaway.

Luck was on his side that night. His blind, swerving, painful drive home went uninterrupted. An empty road on a quiet night filled with upbeat tunes floating through the car speakers and Strade's heavy breathing.

The man held the double puncture wounds on his chest that bled, staining his trademark button up. He was close. Both to passing out and arriving home.

He lost more blood than he thought.

A sense of relief washed over him when he turned onto the street he lived. The hoity toity neighborhood was commonplace and unassuming. Middle and upper-class families settled into the giant houses, enacting the suburban dream. White picket fences, beautiful lawns, friendly neighbors, and a dog or two to help guard their expensive homes.

Strade nearly drifted past his driveway as he quickly opened his garage and parked his sleek vehicle. The door smoothly lowered as the man stumbled out of his car, keys instantly shoved into his pocket. One hand pressed the wound, its bleeding stemmed. His other hand was used to feel his way into the house.

He stomped inside, noting to himself he still needed to retrieve you from the back seat. His lack of vision and annoying wound took precedence.

"REN!"

His booming voice echoed throughout his house. He had no worry of his neighbors hearing his shouting. The walls were thick and the late night guaranteed their deep, unbothered slumbers.

After some clunky, uncoordinated stumbling, Strade managed to shamble into the kitchen. His hands slapped at the cupboards, ripping them open to find a cup. Which one was it? The tiniest of creaks followed by light footfall descending the stairs made the man hyper aware of his surroundings. He whipped around, body draped over the kitchen sink for support as a timid figure peeked into the open room.

"Y-Yes?" A soft voice spoke barely above a whisper. Upon seeing the man beaten black and blue and red, the small male darted to his side, exclaiming, "Strade!"

"Get a-AH VERDAMMT!" Big mistake touching his eyes. His tongue and lips had gone numb. Strade refrained from pawing at his face as he demanded, "Get a cup!"

"O-Okay!" Hopping onto the counter, Ren selected the correct cupboard and picked a large, tall, plastic cup. The small teen also cranked the faucet to the fastest setting, filling the cup rather quickly to the very rim. He handed it to Strade. "Here."

Lurching over the sink, the bulky man wasted no time dumping the water over his face. His hands trembled as the water removed the foam from his skin. Through the particularly torturous process, Strade turned to Ren, but kept his eyes closed. "Bring me the medkit!" He snapped, sticking the cup under the jet stream of water before dousing himself again.

Galloping upstairs on all fours at a speed he didn't know he could reach, Ren ducked into the bathroom and threw open the medicine cabinet under the sink. Bottles of shampoo, piles of towels, and other objects were shoved aside. Ren grabbed the large case and rushed back downstairs.

He trotted to the man's side, holding the plastic case in front of him like a shield. Clearing his throat, Ren asked, "W-What now?"

Strade's level of anger and panic lowered once his eyes were flushed. Of course, most of his facial wounds still stung. They were coated in several layers of pepper gel, and the one you used was pretty damn potent. But those were small potatoes compared to the small pair of holes in his chest.

He cracked his eyes open slightly. He dragged a chair to the sink, plopped down and sighed deeply. You really did a fucking number on him.

Strade peeled his ruined button up off of his person. His black undershirt was next to go, also blood soaked and torn. Dried blood cracked and flaked as he cradled the most troublesome wounds. "Patch me up." The man murmured, patting his exposed chest.

Tilting his head back so his eyes were constantly under the rush of water worked better than pouring a cup's worth.

Strade winced every so often as Ren steadily sterilized the nasty wounds littering his torso. Ren couldn't help but dwell on how strange this was. There were times Strade got into tousles with the people he abducted and Ren helped care for whatever miniscule, artificial wounds they left, but this?

Black eyes also infused with pepper gel. A crooked nose. A very busted lower lip. Cuts and bruises littering his front and back, especially the back. Slits on his left wrist. A deep set of teeth grooves engraved in his hand.

If this was Strade looked like, then he'd hate to see what happened to the other person.

A twinge of fear restricted Ren from asking what he desperately wanted to know. Working up the courage to ask built up and tore down every time he caused Strade to hiss or growl from his mistakes.

Only after he closed the wounds with steady sutures, cleaned his cuts with alcohol wipes, bandaged his wrist and hand, helped set his nose back into place did Ren take the leap.

While wrapping a bandage around Strade's chest, Ren asked, "What happened?"

Strade's deliberate silence worried the fox boy. As soon as the bandages were secured in place, the sturdy man rose up from his perch and stalked upstairs. Ren caught brief glimpses of his captor's face. Brows slightly furrowed, frowning lips, and distant eyes. Whatever had him so deeply concentrated might spell trouble for Ren.

"Strade?" The younger male shrunk as he trailed after him, growing more demure.

Ren's tail swished around, ending in his hands to be picked at and twirled through his fingers. Being subjected to Strade's cold shoulder was a new experience.

Maintaining his silence, Strade disappeared into his room at the end of the hall. A minute or two passed before he reemerged wearing a black tank top. The frown flipped into a smile Ren was all too familiar with.

The man traipsed back downstairs, still saying nothing to the fox following close behind. His fast pace left Ren in the dust as he ventured to a place he couldn’t be followed to. Ren stood by the back door which led to the garage like a dog waiting for its human to return. His ears twitched nervously until the young man decided to exercise his impeccable hearing.

Orange and black tipped, they stood tall and immediately alerted him of a car door slamming and Strade's labored breathing. Shuffling clothes, soft, even breathing, and unburdened footsteps he recognized striding back toward the house. Losing his nerve at the gentle humming caused Ren to scamper to the living room.

Moments later, the door burst open, revealing a dangerously smug Strade carrying a limp person in his arms. Ren hid his shock to the best of his ability.

A girl not much bigger than Ren himself from what he could tell.

Strade clutched your form tightly, as if you would vanish into thin air should his hold weaken at any point.

Ren saw some basic features like your (h/l), (h/c) hair and bruised (s/c) skin. Other than that, there wasn't much to you. Matter of fact, you were run of the mill prey when it came to Strade's catches. And he only stuck to one at a time, so he applied Occam's razor.

You were the one who whooped Strade.

The young fox observed as the burly man took you down into the basement where you'd meet a torturous end. Perking his ears allowed him to hear the fumbling of rope and Strade's mumblings.

"Can't wait…" Ren closed his eyes and strained a bit, the desire to eavesdrop reaching a startling level for him. He rarely did this.

He learned his lesson after Strade imprisoned him and the next victim came along.

Those blood curdling screams that endured for hours still haunted his dreams.

Skin on skin contact. Unusually tender for a man of Strade's tendencies. "Sleep tight for now~." The man sang gleefully. His boots scuffed the concrete floor, and Ren knew to back off. He flattened his ears against his fluffy orange hair and sat on the chair.

The groaning of wood and stomps emerged from the basement. A loud slam and click indicated the newest victim was sealed away with no chance of escape and no way to contact anybody until Strade decided to pay a visit. He jiggled the door knob, double checking his security and sighing contently when the door stayed closed.

Golden hues drifted to Ren. The tanned man ambled close. Muscle memory kicked in. Flinching, Ren braced himself for whatever Strade was about to throw at him.

But the man strolled past the fox boy, giving him an affectionate pat on the head as he passed.

He walked into the kitchen. The faucet dispensed a jetstream momentarily. When it turned off, Strade walked back into the living room, draped himself on the couch, propped his feet up, and laid a damp rag over his eyes. His fingers intertwined and rested on his stomach.

"Go make dinner." He commanded as he stretched to reach peak comfort. Ren's tense posture softened. Post haste, he did as he was told. The tame mood Strade was in was preferable to what would come if Ren lingered too long.

Strade usually stomped around after capturing his prey since he'd have to wait for them to wake. More often than not, he took out any frustration or pleasure from the encounter on Ren. And almost always, it ended with Ren writhing on the floor in deep pain, ecstasy, or both. Strade loomed over him, enjoying the show until he grew bored or Ren passed out.

This was new.

A giddy, but patiently waiting man whose foot waggled rapidly like a dog's wagging tail as he whistled a familiar tune.

Steak and potatoes, an infallible combo. The moment Ren set it down, Strade scarfed it down. No insults about the steak being overcooked, or the mashed potatoes being too dry. He cleaned the plate, and a burped loudly. He slumped back on the couch, returning to his previous position as he placed the damp rag over his eyes.

Curiosity ate away at Ren's fear. The mystery behind what unfolded a few hours ago was too interesting to ignore. Ren picked up the plate, washed it, and shuffled back to the living room. Normally, the boy would have bolted back to his room.

But not this time. Ren had to know. "Strade." Without missing a beat, the man hummed in acknowledgement. Ren swallowed roughly. His tail twitched and swished at a breakneck pace as he gathered the courage to raise the question again. "What happened?"

The waggling foot froze.

"What's this? You want to know?" The man chuckled, pinching the edge of the cloth and lifting it slightly. He stared Ren down, a brow raised. "Truly?"

The demon fox boy nodded. Strade sat up, rolling his shoulders before diving into the story with unrivaled vigor.

Ren listened. Oh, did he listen carefully. Having experienced Strade's tactics firsthand, he thought he'd know how it started, but you were an anomaly. You humiliated him, shunned him, played him, and almost got away with it. Just the memory excited Strade. His cheeks bloomed with a healthy blush. Sweat dampened his hair. He squirmed as he recounted his battle with you in the alley. Strade's hands quivered, especially his bandaged hand when he explained your feisty bite. Drool leaked from the corner of his lip when he described your burning determination to win. How you fooled him and used slight of hand to tase him until he faked unconsciousness. How you slit his wrist to disarm him. How close you came to burying the knife you carried into his eye. His nether regions stirred to life as he mused on turning the tides by peppering kisses along your neck and dry humping you. He thought he won by punching you so hard you blacked out, but that was a ploy too. You, being the clever minx you were, took a page out of Strade's book and blinded him when his guard was down. Then you improvised a weapon and a form of escape. Irritating experiencing it. Exhilarating thinking back about it. No one had fought like you did. Like their lives depended on it, because it did.

By the end of it, Strade was a panting mess. His eyes burned so brightly with desire, Ren cowered for a moment. He thought Strade's primal urges would make him the subject of a quickie, but no.

Standing and stretching lightly, Strade headed for the basement.

"I'm going to see if she's awake."

And with that, the man walked with some pep in his step. He almost skipped. The sight made Ren's skin crawl. He felt sick to his stomach, so he retreated back to his room and curled up on his makeshift bed. Ren tried to distract himself with snacks and rewatching Sailor Moon - the original and not Crystal - for the third time.

Every five minutes, Strade got up to check. He sighed with disappointment when he saw you were still slumped. The incessant stomping up and down the flight of stairs leading to the basement continued for two hours.

It eventually stopped. At 1:54 AM. Not that Ren was watching the clock like a hawk once Strade remained in the basement with you.

You.

(Name).

Clever. Tenacious. Funny. Resourceful. Street smart. Brave. Strong.

You were nothing like Ren. You fought tooth and nail to survive. You dared to fight in the first place. Face scrunched, Ren felt himself tense when he recalled how easily he surrendered. Just one flash of his knife and a threatening promise paired with a dangerous grin was enough to make the young boy comply without hesitation.

Bitterness graced his tongue. He felt his heart twist and clench at the thought of nearly dying at Strade's hands. The only thing that saved him was his secret.

His beast-kin side he worked to keep hidden.

Being a demon fox boy gave him immediate mercy and an extended life span. Novelty saved him. Not the will to fight. Not common sense. Not a clever mind.

His insecurity definitely wasn't influencing him to press his face to the ground in hopes of being able to eavesdrop from the comfort of his room. The basement was soundproof to humans. So at least his "novelty" quality served some use to him.

Ren's boosted hearing caught Strade's muffled voice. God forgive him, Ren waited to hear your pained screams with gusto. Nobody could handle what Strade delivered. Most cracked after an hour, two at most. No one made it past three from what he heard during his time at the house.

But your screams never came. Not one fucking peep. Instead, he heard Strade's explicit moans fifteen minutes in. White hot anger boiled the blood flowing in Ren's veins.

Not long after, Strade exited the basement. Ren scrambled to the door, pulled it ajar, and poked his head out. Sipping a beer while wearing the biggest grin, Strade walked past Ren as if he didn't even see him. He slipped into his room and left the door open.

The recognizable clinking of metal made Ren's hair stand on end.

Another first occurred that night. Ren approached Strade's room on his own accord.

Having spent years with the man, Ren was undeterred by the suffocating odor that permanently latched to Strade's room. The man's back was turned, but Ren spotted the contraption he fiddled with. An electrocution collar, like the one Ren wore.

"You're going to keep her?" The younger male blurted, unease prevalent in his tone.

Strade chuckled. "It's a possibility." He continued to mess with the collar, triggering the mechanism that allowed it to open and shut.

The demon fox wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was more than capable of reading between the lines. He knew what Strade meant. "Why?" He found himself asking, a little more boldly than he intended.

Ren watched the man's hands freeze. The sight made his heart plummet into the pit developing in his stomach. Overstepping his boundaries never ended well. Questioning Strade's decisions earned the fox deep slashes, powerful shocks, and more degrading punishments Ren didn't want to remember.

"Could it be…" Strade craned his neck slowly, leering over his shoulder at Ren with a sinister grin plastered across his lips. Ren kept quiet after he taunted, "My fox is jealous?"

There was no rebuttal for the cold, hard truth.

Strade knew he hit the nail on the head. He bellowed out laughing. "Wie wertvoll!" The man stalked over to the trembling boy. "Fret not, kit." His heavy hand ruffled Ren's hair and scratched behind his ears, eliciting a shaky sigh and a blush. Strade's fingers clutched the orange fluff of Ren's hair. Not too hard, Strade tugged Ren's head back, leaning close to purr, "You're still my favorite."

Thankfully, nothing more came of the interaction. Strade's fingers released their hold on Ren and the man set the collar back into the drawer he pulled it from. Taking the rare moment of Strade refraining from acting on his violent impulses, Ren left Strade's room without making a sound.

Alone. Fulfilled. Tired. The man kicked his boots off, unbuckled his pants, let them fall to his feet, and peeled his sweat soaked tank top off. He lowered himself onto his bed. Spine popping when he stretched, he wiggled his toes and winced at the static numbness.

As a result of his orgasm, Strade had yet to regain the feeling in his toes. He definitely wasn't complaining. The moment was forever engrained in his memories as he smiled at the ceiling, eyes fluttering shut.

He couldn't wait to see what else you brought to the table.

"Has she answered yet?"

"No."

"Keep trying."

Jack swallowed a snarky remark. He knew his boyfriend was just trying to help, but a little more encouragement would be nice. After all, you were nowhere to be seen and no one had heard from you in several hours.

The moment he woke up to your worrisome texts, he blew up your phone. When that yielded no response, Jack wasted no time getting your SOS to the police.

It was no secret that their actions were often lacking when it came to missing person's cases, and you were no exception to their lackadaisical approach. Or rather, hand waving and pitiful excuses.

Maybe she's recovering after a loooong night with that guy.

Maybe that man is her lover. And she ran off with him.

Maybe she's giving you the silent treatment after you bailed on her.

They tried giving Jack the runaround on filing a missing person report. Twenty four hours was recommended before making one, and they way they spoke made it sound like a mandatory rule. But after binging endless hours of true crime cases on YouTube with you, Jack knew better. The first few hours were the most crucial. They determined whether you'd be found dead or alive.

He got his report at the expense of pointed looks and heaps of attitude. When they'd get to investigating your report was a different story all together.

For now, some posts to social media would have to do. His calls for help on identifying the man had yet to gain traction. With your parents out of the picture for a long time, it was up to him and his friends to get you back. Fight against the odds stacking against you.

He had to distract himself. He'd never forgive himself if you--

"Is Lisa close?" Jack hurriedly asked, tapping into his texts with the woman in question. He saw a blur of motion out of his peripheral and glanced up. "Raf?"

"She's here." Two words spurred Jack to his feet. A swift peck to the cheek, the young man shrugged on his coat and threw the door open. "I'll let you know if we find anything."

Raf wasn't going. Someone had to stay in case you came home. "Be careful." Raf called out, settling on the high chair and scrolling through his phone. An idea struck him. He hurriedly got to work.

The duo were already on the way to The Braying Mule. Jack and Lisa sat in tense silence, neither willing to break it. But the woman couldn't stand to see her old friend collapsing in on himself, despair eating at his hope.

"We'll find her." She said with a reassuring certainty.

"I know." He nodded, that same certainty clear as day in his voice.

There was a moderate amount of people inside when they arrived. Receiving curious glances and narrowed stares didn't sway them. In fact, Jack's bravado as he approached everyone ridded the air of suspicion.

Jack recorded each conversation. The waitress, the pub owner, and several patrons confirmed your presence in the establishment along with Strade. They also gladly explained Strade's recurring visits and the "friends" he always seemed to make. You were the exception, having abruptly left the man behind.

Just as the last of the bar goers detailed their relationships with Strade, the man interviewing them heard a whispered call. "Jack." Lisa waved the man over to the exit, and the two left the bar. Wandering a few measly steps brought the pair to an alley.

The darkened passageway was a bit cooler than the bar and the street. Flashlights on, Lisa led the way through the dingy path as Jack followed closely behind. Squeezing through the gap in the fence, the pair sauntered along, ready to fight or flee at the first sign of danger. The scene they did stumble upon once they neared a branching exit to the alley made their blood chill.

Knocked over trashcans. Discarded zip ties. Dried splatters of a dark brown liquid. Hair lodged in the weirdest places. Chipped plastic. The sight of a scuffle, undoubtedly.

All of it documented to great lengths in videos and photos.

In the midst of checking the quality of the pictures, a notification popped into view. Raf had texted. Jack's eyes scanned the messages.

_Found Her Uber Driver_  
_She Can Talk Tomorrow_

They were getting somewhere.

Hopefully.

A sharp pang stirred you from your sleep.

At some point, you passed out and slumped against the pole for support. Lifting up your head, you groaned tiredly as pain flared in your neck. Lifting up your head, you groaned tiredly as pain flared in your neck. The kinks and knots in your poor body hurt as much as the prolonged stinging in your thighs.

Luckily, the blood flow halted entirely. Everything burned. You thrashed against your binds for a while until you passed out from exhaustion. Now, the burns on your wrists felt cold. Any pain that came from rustling burned as if you were out in the snow with no clothes. One look at your bare legs reminded you of the fate of your poor outfit. It never stood a chance.

Except the rope slid up your hand to the joint in your thumb. Eyes wide with surprise, you tilted your head back and forced your arms upright despite the prickling numbness.

Your mind wasn't playing tricks on you. All your struggling and squirming did loosen the ropes. Sure, it hurt like hell, but pulling your limbs free was the most gratifying sensation you've had over the past couple of hours. Days. However long you've been stuck in a serial killer's basement.

Moving to stand was quickly thwarted by slipping on something wet. "O-Oh!" You barely caught yourself from faceplanting into the concrete floor. Grimacing, you hissed as you glanced down at your thighs. The dormant wounds throbbed to life with warm blood spilling from the deepest slash. Instinct prompted your hands to cover and press into the three main gashes to stop the bleeding. You exhaled through your nose, an annoying realization blaring in your head.

Strade was right. You wouldn’t last the night if you left his destruction unattended.

These had to be dealt with. Pronto.

Your eyes locked onto the drawer Strade plucked a medical kit from. Was babying yourself an option? Not really. So you bit back the scream you wanted to unleash as you shakily rose to your feet like a newborn fawn.

Step by step, one blood soaked foot in front of the other. You ignored the streaks of blood trailing down your leg. It was only a meter or two away, but it felt like you walked a marathon. Regardless, you stood in front of the drawer and greedily rewarded yourself for your effort. Rags, medkit, cleaning alcohol, and another protein bar.

Turning your attention to the sink, you hobbled over to it and turned the handle slightly. A gentle stream of water shyly poured out, any sound muffled by placing a rag directly under the stream. No soap, of course. The dirty bastard probably didn't believe in it.

You scrubbed the grime caked into your skin using the wet rag. Your hands needed to be as clean as possible considering what you needed to do.

To quell the burning on your wrists, you stuck them under the stream of water. Your wrists bloomed with painful stinging, but the good kind like before. You let the water run over your chaffed skin for a while, just enjoying the dulling pain.

Hoisting yourself to sit on the sturdy wooden counter, you stuck your legs into the sink and splashed the cool liquid over your bloody legs. Though it was woefully dark, you could see the blood swirling down the drain. Once the area around the wounds were cleaned to the best of your ability, your hand grasped the bottle of cleaning alcohol.

Pouring it directly into your cuts wasn't the smartest idea, but Strade's dirty hands dug into your thighs. If you lived long enough, the infection that would come would make you wish you were dead.

"This is gonna suck." You mumbled aloud to calm yourself. The first few seconds were the worst, then it felt good. You'd done this a thousand times.

Uncapping the bottle and shoving a rag into your mouth to bite on, you closed your eyes doused your wounds with the cleaning solution. Almost immediately, your spine straightened, you chomped onto the cloth, and your nails dug into your palm as you suppressed the screech you wanted to let loose. The plastic bottle dented from your sudden fluctuation in grip strength.

After a few moments, the initial jolt decreased in pain level drastically. The scream changed to a whimper, then a hum. It stopped burning as much. Your tense posture slackened as the bubbling pain toned down. This kind of pain you knew would help you, thus sent pleasured shivers up your spine.

Once it was done with, you blew raspberries and pulled two more objects from the kit, a needle and thread. Time to stitch your broken skin back together. "Fun…" You sighed as you attempted to thread a needle in the lightless basement.

Poking and prodding for several minutes, the forces above were kind enough to give you a break and make your struggling worth it. You quickly tied the thread and brought the tip of the needle to your deepest wound. Getting the worst of it out of the way sounded like the move. Your hand quivered so badly, you clutched it with the other to force it to be still.

"You can do this, (Name)."

It became a chant you used to block out the pain of sticking yourself over and over again as you stitched yourself back together. The curved needle was supposed to make your job easier, but gripping a needle slick with your blood using your clammy fingertips in the fucking dark negated that. Sometimes, the needle would slip from your grip, causing you to wince and whine at the pain. But you continued to sew away, cleaning your hand and needle every couple of stitches to make it easier on yourself.

The other two weren't nearly as bad. You had to rethread the needle again, but the prospect of your wounds being closed and cleaned and properly cared for trumped any negativity threatening to stifle you.

Unfortunately, there were no bandages to wrap your careful stitches with. The rags were too small and there weren't enough to create some kind of makeshift bandage.

Then you saw your tattered clothes.

A grin slowly crossed your lips. They were thankfully untouched by your pools of blood, so you assumed they were sterile enough. With your leg cared for, you let out a sigh of relief and tore open the energy bar, munching on it as you got lost in thought for a bit.

How long could the human body survive without eating a proper meal? A week? You read that somewhere. You hoped it was right.

Finishing the small source of food, you drank from the tap and splashed some of it over your face, gurgled it, used it to clean the trail of bloody footprints you tracked everywhere. And once you knew you were done using it, you relieved yourself of all the liquid Strade shoved down your gullet.

You let the sink run to wash away your piss as you investigated the basement.

There wasn't much to find. Just more torture tools and rope. You did grab a knife before turning your sights on the flight of stairs leading out of the basement. You did remember hearing him lock the door after you…uh…yeah. You were still compelled to check.

Fighting down the blush, you walked over to the staircase and carefully put one foot on the first board. You flinched and retreated as soon as a loud moan left the step.

You squinted at the ceiling. The softest pitter patter made you even more cautious as you stepped away from the staircase. You heard a different set of steps coming down, pausing at the door and jiggling the locked handle.

Spooked, you backed away from the exit and scuttled back to the main room with the pole. You pressed yourself against the small gap of the wall where nothing was stationed. Maybe you could sneak attack whoever was coming down, because the gentle footfall definitely didn't belong to Strade. Shutting off the water helped your hearing somewhat, but you were still stuck in the basement with someone wandering nearby. Someone who could help you, or fuck you over.

The door to the basement remained closed, but you heard the occasional croak and shifting just in front of the door. As if…as if someone was waiting for you to try and escape.

Will they? Won't they? What's stopping them? Who are they? Maybe it was Strade? Could you really take him in your condition? He wasn't looking too hot either, but still.

You psyched yourself out.

In the end, you plopped down against the pole, carefully stuck your arms back into the binds, and hid the knife under you. If it was a game the person guarding the door wanted, then it was a game they'd get.

Minutes passed. You waited. Your eyelids grew heavy. They fluttered shut. They'd open suddenly when you felt yourself dozing.

You could wait.

You had all night.

Or day…

…whatever…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sicher, Prinzessin. -----> Sure thing, princess. 
> 
> AH VERDAMMT! -----> Damn it!
> 
> Wie wertvoll. -----> How precious.


End file.
